Questhaven
by GeekGirlNicole
Summary: After a hunt gone wrong, Sam isn't getting better. A hunt from Dean's past may contain the answer. Post Mystery Spot, but spoilers through season 3.
1. Chapter 1

Title:Questhaven

Author:Nicole (SpuffyLvr3)

Genre:Gen; case file; angst; H/C

Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby, Pamela

Timeline:It will go pre-series at times, but the main story takes place just days after season 3's Mystery Spot, however assume spoilers through the end of season 3.

Summary:After a hunt gone wrong, Sam isn't getting better.

**Chapter 1**

_**December 21**__**st**__**, 2003**_

He wasn't sure if he ever felt pain like this before.

If he had, he didn't recall. That thought made him laugh even though he shouldn't be laughing at all. For many reasons, not the least of which was that it hurt like hell to breathe, much less laugh. Another noteworthy reason was that his situation was not at all funny. He doesn't recall if he's ever felt pain like this before because he doesn't recall much of anything at the moment.

Sure, he remembered a lot of important stuff. His ABCs and how to count to ten (and probably further, but he wasn't ready to test that theory). He was fairly certain he could walk (if he wasn't hurting so much), and his arms could move and he wiggled his toes for good measure, so he hadn't lost his motor functions. For some reason he knew exactly how to disassemble a 9mm Beretta.

The only reason that information was so readily available was because he'd tried to figure out why he was _holding_ a 9mm Beretta in his right hand. The sight of the gun triggered a memory of him disassembling it and cleaning it. He had no idea, however, why he was sitting on the side of the road beat all to hell, with a gun in one hand, a lighter in his pocket (though no cigarettes, and yes, he looked), and a knife strapped to his leg. He was leaning against a car on the passenger side. He didn't know the make or model, because he hadn't mustered up the strength to stand or turn his head to look, but its black exterior was getting so hot against his back in the midday sun that he was thinking of finding the strength to at least roll underneath it instead.

The only thing he was sure of was that the amount of blood he's dripping from his forehead and other various cuts across his torso could not be a good thing. His head was pounding- across his forehead, behind his eyes, at the base of his skull. He learned the hard way that shallow breaths were the way to keep from passing out. Anything too deep and pain lanced through his chest so fierce that blackness crept around the edges of his vision and the world tilted and threatened to throw him right off. But even the shallow breaths were getting too difficult to muster. Every few minutes, his body panicked about the low supply of oxygen, and his lungs screamed for him to take a deep breath. He longed to fill his lungs completely but couldn't. Not unless he wanted to pass out again- which, no. No thanks. He'd like to get the hell off this road and to a hospital.

He lolled his head to the side and looked at the gun in his hand. He'd checked the magazine about an hour ago. It had been second nature and somehow he'd just known to push the button on the left side of the gun to eject the magazine. Two rounds had been left inside with another in the chamber. He wasn't sure what that meant, but he was increasingly beginning to believe he was involved in something pretty bad. He was beat up, with a gun that had multiple rounds missing. He had a knife strapped to his right leg. He had no memory of how he had gotten into this predicament or any personal memories at all. No name, birthday, age, family, nothing.

The man turned his wrist and noted the time. It had been an hour since he woke here, bloody and confused. He was still in a lot of pain, but the increasing breathing difficulty was his main worry, followed by blood loss at a close second. His thoughts and running mental commentary may have been going a mile a minute, but his breaths were coming only in short gasps now. He hadn't heard a car or any sign of life for the full hour, so sitting around wasn't going to get him rescued.

With the decision made, he began to draw his legs under him to stand. His legs, for the most part, were undamaged, which might be his only saving grace. If he could just get himself into the car he could drive toward somewhere more populated and get some help. There were car keys in his jacket pocket, and at this point he was praying that they belonged to the car he was sitting next to. He pulled the cell phone out again. It didn't have a signal an hour ago when he found it in his pocket, and, of course, it still didn't. The only difference was that the battery had lost another bar, leaving only one left.

It was definitely time to get moving. Pain or not, he would die if he just sat there.

With his legs successfully drawn up he used the car to push and pull himself to his feet. The first waves of blinding pain almost stopped him but he pushed through somehow and leaned against the vehicle. He closed his eyes tight, warding off the nausea and dizziness, and waited for everything to stop spinning so he could make his next move. His body was screaming for more air, but he knew better than to try and take a full breath. The small, gasping inhalations were making him feel lightheaded and a little loopy now.

Step two. Get into the vehicle.

His chest and ribs protested every shuffling move he made. His arms were wrapped tight around his middle as he made his way to the back of the vehicle. He distracted himself from the pain for a moment to marvel at the beautiful classic car (Chevy Impala and gorgeous) and the distraction lasted long enough for him to make it to the trunk without passing out. The keys work on the trunk and the first glimmer of hope rose in his chest.

The trunk was empty- at least on first glance. And even though he knew time was of the essence, he felt compelled to pull up the false bottom. He blinked and wondered what he'd gotten himself into. His heart began racing, the black fog growing around his vision, and he threw the gun in with the rest of the weapons there, deciding that he couldn't wonder about the arsenal in the trunk right now. Hospital first, or none of it would matter.

He made it to the driver's side door and it unlocked and opened with a groan. He practically fell into the seat. The movement of lowering himself down was enough to send shocks through his torso and he almost lost his tenuous grip on consciousness. But then he turned the key and a sense-memory so vivid hit him (hard) and he inexplicably felt at home. Safe.

Which was so disturbing because he was nowhere near safe yet. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror as he pulled the car onto the road. He didn't recognize the man who looked back- hazel eyes that leaned more toward green than brown, scruff on his chin and cheeks that must have been a few days old, and brown hair cut close on the sides but longer on top. The right side of his face was smeared with blood and it stood out brightly against his pale skin. Freckles were visible on the surfaces of his face that weren't covered in blood and-

He jerked the wheel back onto the road. Concentrate. Focus. His mind was wandering and his eyes had rolled back into his head more than once since he started driving. The lines of the road were blurring, then multiplying. He thought that as long as he couldn't hear the familiar _thump, thump, thump _ of his tires straying across the street markings he'd be okay. He allowed himself a quick glance at the cell phone gripped in his hand, but there was no signal. He watched his speed as he maneuvered through the winding road. He shouldn't even be driving at all. What if he hurt someone?

Time began to drag, and then it skipped, like a scratched cd. One minute he's watching the road, and the next he was sure he lost a moment or two. His eyes must have closed… He jerked the wheel again as the car leaned too far to the right and he narrowly missed the ditch. He was struggling now for air, barely able to pull in enough to keep conscious. A violent urge to cough rose in his throat, but he knew that he couldn't. He'd pass out if he coughed, and among other things he really didn't want to crash this car.

And then a housing tract was looming in the windshield. Through his drooping eyes he could see kids on bikes not too far away, mothers with strollers and dogs on leashes. He drove a few more yards and then pulled over. Somehow he was cognizant enough to know he couldn't drive the car any further without endangering people. That second nature kicked in and he locked the car door without thought. He pocketed the keys and cell phone as he stumbled toward the first house. The cough was fighting its way up his constricted throat and he was on the well-manicured front lawn when he was no longer able to control it. He coughed violently, and he could feel the warm blood trickling out of his mouth, down his chin as pain erupted in his chest and ribcage. He was falling and he put his arms out to catch himself. The last thing he felt before darkness was the snap in his left wrist and prickly, perfect blades of green grass on his face.

End Chapter 1

Author's Note: I would love feedback. Please and thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_**February 2008**_

_**California- Elfin Forest**_

"A simple salt-n-burn, huh? It's kind of nice actually."

The sound of shoveling halted followed by an exasperated sigh.

"Simple for you, maybe, but flashlight duty hardly qualifies as labor," Sam replied. His voice was muffled by the walls of dirt and mud around him as he bent for another shovel-full of dirt.

"Whatever, Princess. You were supposed to get the shovels and I got the duffel and the shotgun. And the good looks and charm. It's not my fault you only grabbed one shovel." Dean adjusted the aim of the flashlight back into the dirt as he squat down. He didn't mention that he was also keeping watch with the shot gun. "Seriously, what was that about? If you didn't want to carry both shovels all you had to do was say so."

Sam wiped the sweat from his brow and back of his neck and didn't answer. They'd just driven from Broward County, Florida to California. It was Friday. It was the Friday after the hundred and then some Tuesday's, followed by the six months that he never wanted to think about again. He'd honestly forgotten to get two shovels. Just like he'd ordered a room with one bed by accident just that morning. Dean had grumbled all the way back to the motel manager's office to change the sleeping arrangements. Yesterday Sam had jumped into the driver's seat of the Impala and almost driven away while Dean was in the bathroom at the mini-mart. Once they got through Wednesday without another Dean death, he'd managed to stop following Dean everywhere he went. He'd also managed to quit jumping at the sound of his brother's voice. Sam was still compulsively checking to see if Dean was really there and he had not managed to stop his paranoia that he was in one of the Trickster's twisted mind-games. He knew Dean wanted to question him on the Broward County fiasco. His brother had shot him the worried glances more than once in their cross-country drive.

Taking another shovel full of dirt and tossing it out on to the growing pile, he realized he'd hit the top of the casket.

Dean heard the scrape of shovel on wood at the same time.

"Yahtzee! Let's burn this corpse and go find Bela."

Sam began clearing away enough dirt to open up the casket. "Bobby hasn't called us back with specifics yet, Dean. California's a big state. She could be anywhere." The casket creaked open and Sam handed the shovel up to Dean's waiting hand, exchanging it for the can of salt. "And the Colt's probably long gone."

"We find her or we don't. Whatever. There's got to be some more big evil brewing here in So Cal. We kill it. Good time for all."

They wordlessly exchanged the salt for the lighter fluid and Dean watched from above as Sam drenched the bones.

"Witches, man. I seriously dislike them."

Sam smiled at that. Dean was nothing if not consistent on his anti-witch stance.

"You know, though. Do you get the feeling that we're missing something here? I mean, yeah, we're burning the witch's corpse. Should be a done deal, right? But I keep getting this… déjà vu or something. I don't know, this whole back-woods windy-road forest doesn't feel right."

"Déjà vu, huh? Well, if you start reliving days over and over again, I might know a little something about that," Sam replied, his voice humorless.

"Oh, right. But, it's not like that. It's just like I've been here before, in these woods. But I know I've never hunted in Elfin Forest before." Dean capped the salt canister and retrieved the lighter fluid from Sam's waiting hand, digging in his pocket for the matches.

"Dean, when I mentioned a salt-n-burn in Elfin Forest, you thought we were going to hunt elves."

Dean chuckled at that. "Elves. That would have been awesome. Come on, Sasquatch.

Out of the hole so we can see some fireworks."

"Wait. You feel that, Dean?" asked Sam. The air had grown cold and the wind was picking up steadily. Trees rustled while a low moaning sound seemed to fill the night air. The temperature had easily dropped a few dozen degrees in mere seconds. Dean raised the shot gun. "That's not a good sign."

"Less talking. More burning, Sam." Sam reached his hand up for a boost out of the grave.

Dean had Sam hauled halfway out when an invisible force knocked Sam right back in, the clasp of their hands ripped apart quickly. That left Dean off balance and falling backward to land on his ass. He heard Sam hit, and knew from the position he'd fallen from that he'd have landed right in the casket.

"What the hell…" Dean muttered. He clenched his right hand tight around the shot gun. "Sammy, you OK?"

Sam grunted in response.

_Not good enough, little brother,_ thought Dean. He hauled himself to his feet and peered over the edge of the grave, keeping his eyes alert for the spirit (_or whatever the hell it was)_ that had knocked them both down. The wind was still whipping the trees wildly, the rustling of the leaves like waves crashing on rocks. Sam lay flat on his back, bones of the witch below him, and rubbing the back of his head where it must have glanced off the top edge of the casket. He pulled his hand away from his head to inspect the damage and came away with blood on his fingertips.

"Ow…" Sam groaned, wiping his hand on his jeans. "What was that?"

"Not sure. I think we pissed something off, though." Dean stayed alert, shot gun up, eyes roaming the tree line and nearby gravestones for trouble and keeping his brother in his periphery. "Listen, I'm sure it's cozy down there, but get the hell up."

"Yeah. M'okay. Gimme a sec."

It was the way Sam's words slurred that caused Dean to whip his head around to focus his full attention on his brother.

_He must have hit his head harder than I thought. Dammit. _

And then Dean was flying backward across the graveyard, shotgun in hand. He came to a sudden stop up against a tree, and groaned at the impact. He moved to raise the shotgun, but his entire body was pinned against the rough bark. He had flown only twenty yards or so and could still see his duffel, the shovel and the pile of displaced dirt. His eyes roamed the old graveyard, but he still saw no sign of their attacker.

_What the hell? Why was the spirit or demon or whatever playing hide and seek?_

He was about to start seriously struggling against his invisible bonds when the wind completely stopped, the howling ceasing right along with it, and the graveyard was silent and still once again. He slid down the trunk of the tree, his thin shirt riding up in the back. Tree bark scraped and cut all the way down. As soon as his feet hit the ground he raised the shotgun and headed toward the pile of dirt and his brother.

He was only a few feet away when the dirt pile _lifted_ off the ground and was dumped back into the grave --

Right on top of Sam.

End Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes: **A HUGE thank you to those who have reviewed and/or added my story to favorites and alerts! It means so much to hear from those of you reading this and it keeps me motivated to continue writing.

I should probably mention that the story is all plotted out, and chapter 4 is just about finished- just needs some editing. The outline is telling me it'll be about 10 chapters in all, but don't hold me to it.

Please continue to enjoy. I always welcome comments and constructive feedback.

_**Chapter 3**_

His world came to a screeching halt.

Dean stumbled forward to where the edge of the grave had just been and fell on his knees. The shot gun slipped and clattered on the ground. His hands clenched, grasping fistfuls of earth. He blinked his eyes quickly, as if he didn't quite believe what he'd just seen. But the pile of dirt Sam had shoveled out was now replaced back in the grave. The grave he'd left Sam lying in-

_Sam._

_No. _

_... Sammy._

His lungs burned and his chest constricted. Dean suddenly gulped in oxygen he hadn't realized he had been depriving himself of.

_Oxygen._

_Sammy._

The Earth tilted and began its rotation again. The ground seemed to jerk under his feet as he grabbed for the shovel. A wave of dizziness hit him as he frantically dug.

_Sam._

Dean shoveled, ignoring the ache in his chest. His heart thudded against his ribcage, sweat trickled down from his hairline to his chin. He ignored the pinpricks of pain on his back as sweat ran through the cuts and scrapes left there from the rough tree bark. He ignored the sticky fluid that dripped on his neck from the back of his head.

But he couldn't ignore the thoughts in his head.

_How long could someone survive buried alive? _

_What if there was _somehow _a pocket of air? _

_Buried under four to six feet of dirt? With a head injury? _

He kept digging and pushed those questions away. His hands were trembling as he dug and he fought to keep hold of the shovel. Sam had dug for forty-five minutes to get to the top of the casket-

_There's no way he could survive that long…_

_He could have aspirated dirt and choked to death in moments…_

Dean continued digging, blinking the tears from his eyes. Not caring that they ran down his cheeks while he shoveled. His heart was racing, blood pumping so violently that he could hear it _whooshing_ in his ears. It was all he could hear.

He had no idea how much time had passed. He focused on the repetitive motion of shoveling and the willpower it was taking to hold back his nausea. His limbs shook from exhaustion; his vision was swimming. He was getting close, though and so he quickened his pace.

He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but the shovel hitting the top of the casket wasn't it. It jarred him out of his grief for a brief moment. Then Dean threw the shovel aside, grabbed the flashlight and began clearing dirt away by hand.

_The casket lid was closed._

Hope fluttered in his chest, compressed around his heart and escaped from his lips in a desperate cry of "Sammy?"

He pried the lid open, shaking violently.

Sam was lying on his back with his arms at his sides. Dean almost lost control of the bile creeping up his throat at the sight of his little brother so _still_ in the casket. He straddled either side of the casket to lean in close, but he could see already that his brother wasn't breathing. By the pale light from the moon and the flashlight's illumination his brother's lips were tinged blue.

_Oxygen deprivation with a head injury. Followed by the presence of fumes from the lighter fluid-_

Dean dropped to his knees, straddling his little brother's chest. Years of training, drilled into him by his father, came rushing back.

Open the airway. Check.

Dean felt for a pulse, not finding one, but he cursed because his hands were shaking so uncontrollably he couldn't be sure.

He pinched Sam's nose closed and breathed into him, _once, twice._ Fifteen chest compressions. He breathed for his brother again, _once, twice,_ watching Sam's chest rise with each breath and then go still again. He started the chest compressions again-

"C'mon, Sam. _C'mon._ Breathe." _It hasn't been too long, he's going to be fine, it hasn't been too long…_

Two more breaths and back to compressions. Dean let out a frustrated cry. _He was back in Cold Oak, holding his brother up in the middle of the dirt road. Wrapping his arms around his brother's boneless body as he died. As he died in the middle of frigging South Dakota on a muddy street in an abandoned town all because Dean was too late…_

_It hasn't been too long, he's going to be fine, it hasn't been too long… _ He repeated the mantra over and over and over-

Panic was welling up in his chest, his throat closing up as he fought it back down. He pinched Sam's nose closed again, breathing _once-_

Sam coughed and sucked in a deep breath. Dean rolled his brother onto his side, coaxing him to keep breathing, _keep breathing Sammy, that's right, you're fine, keep breathing, I've got you._ Sam continued to gulp and cough, rubbing his chest while he blinked through the confusion. Dean sat back on his heels, a hand against the side of the casket to keep from falling over and allowed himself one deep breath of relief before standing up. _You can fall apart once your both out of the hole and the damned witch is burning. _

"Sam?" His voice was a strained whisper, his throat clogged with dust and emotion, so he cleared it and tried again. "Sam? We gotta get out of here. Let's go."

"Dean, I can't- God, m'head _hurts_. Hurts to open m'eyes," he slurred. Sam was still on his side, one hand on his chest, the other wrapped around the top of his head as if trying to keep his brain from exploding through the top of his skull. "Where am I?"

Dean reached down, grabbing his brother's hands. He ignored the question. "This is going to suck, but you have to stand up. Now. You can lie down all you want once we're above ground."

Sam started to nod, then thought better of it and grunted out an "Okay, yeah" instead. Dean pulled Sam to his feet, let him sway for a moment until the dizziness passed, and then gently guided him to the side of the dirt hole. Sam pulled himself up with a little help from Dean and Dean followed right behind.

Dean got to his feet, taking note that Sam had passed out again laying flat on his back in the dirt next to the shovel and duffel bag. His chest was rising and he was more or less okay, so Dean let him be for the moment. He had to finish this before they both got thrown around or buried alive again. He dug out a book of matches, lit them, and threw them into the casket.

He watched the flames ignite, spread, and lick up the sides of the grave. Dean rubbed both hands over his eyes and dragged them down to his lips. He held them there until he was able to swallow the sob of relief that was threatening to erupt. The adrenaline that had sustained him this long bottomed out and he sat down abruptly. Sam was right beside him, unconscious, and Dean laid a hand on his brother's chest. He felt the rise and fall, slow and steady.

Dean allowed himself to fall apart.

End Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **Again, a huge thanks to all of you who are reading and commenting and to those of you who have the story on alert! It means so much to hear from you.

Sorry about the delay in getting this chapter out. The medical stuff was tripping me up, so hopefully I've done alright with it (since I'm, you know, a payroll administrator and a mom and not a doctor).

Enjoy, and as always, comments and constructive criticism is always welcome.

**Chapter 4**

_**December 23**__**rd**__**, 2003**_

_**Palomar Hospital, CA**_

He came to slowly, piece by piece. He heard a beeping, then a whirring accompanied by a tightening sensation on his upper arm, and the scratching of a pen against paper. He felt a cast on his left wrist, and pain in his chest and ribs. His head was throbbing. His whole body was throbbing, in fact. A dull, all-over ache in every joint.

He was in a hospital, though he had no reason why that knowledge would piss him off. There was a memory, a few memories actually, of him in hospitals. He tried to grab onto one of the memories, to see it face to face and make some sense of it, but it slipped through his fingers and he was left only with frustration. Frustration and the knowledge that he hated hospitals, though he wasn't able to figure out why.

A chair rolled closer to him and he listened as someone settled onto it.

"My name is Dr. Freeman. You're in the ICU at Palomar Hospital." The woman's hand touched his shoulder and he cracked one eye open experimentally and the other quickly followed. The lights had been dimmed in the room. His vision blurred for a moment before he was able to put a face to the voice. The woman looked to be in her mid thirties, her brown hair tied loosely back. Her head cocked to one side as she studied his reactions and she glanced at the beeping monitors and jotted a note on the clipboard in her hand.

"You were very lucky, sir. I'm told you managed to pass out on the lawn of the only off-duty EMT in that neighborhood. He kept you breathing long enough for an ambulance to arrive. You have several injuries, however, some of which were very serious. You broke a rib and cracked a couple more. The broken rib managed to puncture a lung – a small tear, but we had to put in a chest tube. Throw in a concussion, a broken left wrist, some pretty deep lacerations on your torso that had to be stitched up and significant blood loss. You've spent the last day and a half in and out of consciousness. We'd all like for you to fill in some blanks for us when you're able to."

He must have looked worried because she put her hand on his shoulder again and her blue eyes flashed with pity for just a moment.

"This is a lot to take in, I know. Why don't we start with your pain level? One to ten?"

He took an experimental breath and winced. "I dunno. A six?" He took another small breath. "Mostly my head and chest."

"Unfortunately, due to the nature of the rib injuries, it's going to take time for full healing and breathing difficulties will continue. Before you're discharged, someone will come by and give you more information on breathing and coughing exercises that will facilitate healing. They'll also be armed with a lot of paperwork that you managed to avoid." She reached into a drawer and withdrew a small plastic bag that read "Patient's Belongings" on the front and handed it to him. "A set of keys, a cell phone and the clothes you were wearing when they brought you in. ER security confiscated a knife."

He looked up at her with concern at mention of the knife, but she didn't dwell on it.

"You had no id on you when you arrived. Can you give me your name?"

He held her gaze for a long moment, willing his brain to supply something helpful. He had knowledge of all kinds of things in his head, but he doubted that telling her about weapons training or how to fix a car would be helpful. He reached again for the personal details, the memories that floated just out of reach, but they disappeared again as soon as he got close.

"I can't remember."

Dr. Freeman's brow furrowed and her blue eyes darted up to his with concern. "You can't remember your name? Or the name of a family member?" He shook his head. "Do you remember how you were injured?"

"No, I don't. Should I be worried about the memory loss?"

She made a "hmm" sound at the back of her throat and considered the question. "I wouldn't worry about the memory loss just yet," she reassured him. "It's most likely temporary due to the concussion and trauma of the last couple of days. Let's give it a little more time, okay?"

Dr. Freeman stood up, checking the monitors and fluid bags above him.

"I'll order you something a little stronger for the pain and you get some rest," she said as she exited the room.

He ran his good hand over his lips as he considered his options. He opened the bag of his belongings. The clothes were a bust. The t-shirt was slashed in several areas and covered in blood and the jeans weren't much better. A smaller plastic bag held a silver ring and necklace with some kind of charm on it. He ran his thumb over the face of the charm and had a quick flash of a memory: _Christmas lights and a young boy watching him from behind the blonde hair that hung in his eyes-_ But the memory was gone just as fast. He replaced the ring and necklace and grabbed for the cell phone.

It was turned off, and he hoped that was the work of the hospital and not the battery. When he pushed the power button it quickly displayed a message:

_10 missed calls_

_4 voicemails_

He clicked on the missed calls, and saw _Sam's Cell_ listed over and over. The name didn't jog any memories. He clicked over to the contacts and scrolled through. He stopped at _Dad's Cell_ and hit the send button. It went straight to voicemail: _This is John Winchester. Leave a message._

Winchester. Was that his last name? It didn't sound familiar to him, nor did the man's voice. He switched over to the missed voicemails. Somehow he remembered the password to retrieve the messages, and he wondered briefly why his memory loss was so selective. It seemed odd that his personal information was missing from his brain, but he could remember a few strange things that, out of context, didn't make a lot of sense. Every time he reached for a memory to try and sort it out, it flew just out of his grasp.

The voicemails began:

_Hey Dean, it's me. Just wanted to say Merry Christmas a few days early. Jess and I are going to her parents to celebrate on Christmas Eve. Call me back, okay?_

_Hey Dean. Sam again. Is everything alright? Call me back._

_Dean? C'mon man, just give me a quick call back so I know you and Dad are okay._

_Dean? Don't make me have to call Dad. You know how pissed I'll be… Call me. Please._

The voicemails were all from the same person, and he'd sounded pretty upset. '_Don't make me have to call Dad'_ … so they were brothers? He hit send on _Sam's Cell_ and waited.

***

_**December 23**__**rd**__**, 2003**_

_**Palo Alto, CA**_

_**Stanford University**_

Sam Winchester was holding his cell phone in one hand, staring at the blank display. He'd left Dean a handful of messages, called almost a dozen times. Sam bit the side of his thumbnail nervously. His leg bounced up and down while he considered his options. Something was definitely wrong. Dean would never ignore Sam's calls. Even on a job, he would find a way to call Sam back to reassure him that everything was okay. But Sam had been calling for nearly two days with no response.

He scrolled through his contacts until _Dad's Cell_ was highlighted, but his finger hovered over the send button. He didn't want to call his dad. It would mean opening a door that had been shut for over a year now. Even though it had been so long, his dad's voice still echoed loud and clear: _if you go, then you stay gone._

_Yes Sir, _he'd said. And he hadn't looked back.

On the other hand, if he did call his dad and got no answer, Sam would be officially screwed. He hadn't been involved in their lives or hunts, he had no idea where they were. It was bad enough that even he and Dean had been talking less and less. His last phone call with Dean had been around Thanksgiving. Him and Dad had been in Arizona then, but they could be anywhere now.

Sam felt a pang of regret that he tried not to dwell on. It was a familiar feeling he'd had over the past year. Dean and Dad were more than able hunters and Sam had no doubt that they could watch each other's backs, but not being involved left Sam feeling helpless.

It was situations just like this one that scared the crap out of him. It was the fear that woke him in the middle of the night, wondering if they were okay and knowing that if they weren't he might never even find out. Their hunt could go sideways while Sam was at Stanford-

_I'm doing the right thing,_ he thought, pushing the guilt away. _I have_ _every right to want more from my life than hunting, and I worked damn hard to get here_.

Sam took a deep breath, about to hit the send button when the phone rang in his hand.

"Dean? What the hell, man? I've been calling for two days-"

"Is this Sam?"

"No, it's friggin' Santa Claus," he spat. He took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dean, are you okay? Is Dad okay?"

"Um, listen, man. I got your number from my cell phone-"

_What?_

He must have said that aloud, because Dean's gruff voice continued: "I'm in the hospital. I don't really remember anything, but your name was on my cell phone and you left me a bunch of messages... I don't know. We're related or something, right? So I thought I should call you back. Let you know where I was?"

Sam sat down involuntarily on the side of the bed, his legs giving out from beneath him. Winchester triage was usually done in a dirty motel room with a first aid kit, some aspirin and a bottle of Jack. If Dean was in the hospital, it was bad. The memory loss wasn't uncommon for him with severe concussions, but he usually just forgot the events surrounding the head injury. He'd never lost actual memories and personal information.

"Where are you?"

"Um, dammit. The Dr. told me, hold on." Sam heard a rustling sound and a few more curses and then, "Palomar Medical Center. In California."

"And Dad's not with you? You haven't seen him?" He opened his laptop to get directions to the hospital.

"No, but I tried to call him. He didn't answer."

"Dean, listen to me. I can be there by this afternoon, okay? In the meantime if you see any cops or if the hospital staff starts asking questions, don't tell them anything. I know you said you don't remember much, but even if you do, just keep telling them you can't remember. Okay? Tell them I'm on my way, and I'll handle the paperwork when I get there."

Dean doesn't answer for a moment. "Yeah, okay," he says, finally. "Am I in some kind of trouble?"

Sam sighed and rolled his eyes. "Knowing you, probably. We'll figure it out when I get there."

End Chapter 4

***


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **Thanks again to all of you who are taking the time to feed the author with your reviews and comments. It really motivates me to get the chapters done in a timely manner. I can be kind of a slow writer, but you all are really helping me to get it done!

Thanks, and enjoy. We're finally getting into the 'meat' of the story.

**Chapter 5**

_**February 2008**_

_**Rancho Sante Fe, CA –**_

_**Motel just outside of Elfin Forest**_

As a child his list of fears had been so simple.

Clowns.

He was afraid of clowns, but they were easy enough to avoid. Of course, Dean had teased him mercilessly. There was the time Dean had rented "It", not telling Sam what the movie was about until it was too late and Sam was already traumatized. Dean had laughed until their dad had come home and told him to knock it off. Then, months later, when Sam had forgotten the whole event, Sam had found a small clown head under his pillow. Sam only made contact with the clown head long enough to throw it at Dean, who was sitting across the room laughing so uncontrollably that tears ran down his cheeks.

Growing up, his fears had evolved.

Losing Dean.

It was a fear that had always been on his list, but Dean had always been the _untouchable, undefeated, immortal _big brother. Sam had never really worried about losing Dean until the past few years. The crossroads deal had brought the fear to the surface. Broward County and the Trickster had tested and prodded that fear until Sam was in a full blown panic over it. One hundred days of watching his brother die in increasingly horrible and unpredictable ways. Six months of being alone. Being on the road, in his brother's car, with his '_untouchable, immortal'_ big brother rotting six feet under in Florida. Six months of spiraling out of control, vengeance his only companion, watching himself turn into something almost inhuman. Seeing that, without Dean, he was a shell of a person. Knowing that, even if he found the Trickster and got him to turn back time, Dean was still headed to Hell, and Sam would be left alone.

He'd gotten Dean back, but the clock was still ticking down the last remaining minutes of Dean Winchester. And losing Dean remained at the top of Sam's list of fears.

He had new fears to add to the list.

Buried alive and confined spaces.

He had just enough time to make these mental additions before he felt a cool washcloth on his forehead and he drifted back off to sleep.

When Sam woke again, he came to violently. He was shaking and sweating. It was dark but he could feel particles of dirt falling onto his face through the cracks of the casket. He gagged on the overwhelming scent of death, accelerant fumes, and earth all around him. The absence of sound was deafening, surrounding him. Panic welled up from somewhere deep inside him and erupted in a scream that sent white hot pain through his head. He thrust both hands straight up, looking to make contact with the top of the casket-

-but his fists connected with flesh instead. A muffled curse and then two hands were grabbing onto Sam's and gently lowering them back down. His surroundings transformed from his nightmare to reality. He could feel the motel bed below him. Sound returned unexpectedly, too loud at first, and he could hear Dean saying his name over and over.

"Sammy? You're okay. I've got you, okay? You're safe now."

Sam cracked his eyes open and then instantly regretted it. He squeezed them shut quickly and mumbled something about the lights. He could hear his brother muttering "sorry, sorry". Dean's hand left his for a moment and Sam heard the bedside lamp shut off with a click and then Dean's hand was back, squeezing Sam's hand in reassurance.

"I've got the light in the bathroom on, but it's real indirect. You want to try opening your eyes again?" Dean said. Sam heard the worry in Dean's voice and cracked his eyes again to get a look at his brother.

"Dean, you look like crap." Sam blinked, trying to right his vision. "Both of you."

"Yeah, look who's talking," Dean replied. He released Sam's hands and rubbed his jaw. "Dude, you hit like a girl."

Sam gave him a half smirk and pushed himself up to semi-recline against the headboard. The room swam and he winced and grabbed his head as he continued to find a comfortable position. Satisfied, he watched as Dean grabbed a handful of items and made his way back to the side of the bed.

"Take these." He handed Sam some aspirin and a bottled water and sat down next to him. "And drink all of that, slowly. You were puking all night and you're probably dehydrated." He cracked an ice pack from the first aid kit. "Keep that on the back of your head. I stitched the cut up last night, but we really can't afford for your head to get any bigger than it already is, ya know?"

"Ha ha," Sam replied, doing as he was told. The concussion was mild, at least milder than he was used to. His vision was still a bit blurry around the edges and he had the usual headache, but he felt alright. Considering. He took a cautious sip from the water bottle and noticed for the first time the bandages around the knuckles of his hands.

"So. Buried alive, huh? That's a new one for me. I'll have to add it to my résumé," Sam said, watching Dean carefully.

Dean's eyes darkened, but he joked in reply, "I'll bet that knocks grade-A nerd and most on-the-job strangulations right off the list."

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You okay?"

His brother pulled in a shaky breath, released it, and nodded. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"I'll be fine. Soon as my head stops pounding, that is." Dean was studying a loose thread on the comforter so Sam took the opportunity to look him over. Dean hadn't showered, that was for sure. A thin layer of dirt covered him, noticeable mostly on his arms and hair, though he'd obviously washed his face. Twin black circles ran under his eyes and his freckles stood out against his skin the way they always did when he was hurt or exhausted. The haunted look in Dean's eyes, the look that plainly said _"that was too close, Sammy"_, worried Sam the most. "I passed out pretty quickly. Which was probably for the best, you know, since unconscious I would have consumed less oxygen. Care to fill in the details?"

Dean agreed, but put in a pizza order and cracked open a beer before getting started.

"No beer for you, concussion boy," he said, handing him another bottled water.

Sam rolled his eyes, but let Dean win for now.

He reminded Sam about the sudden wind and howling in the graveyard and how something had pushed Sam back into the grave. "You hit your head on the edge of the casket and then something grabbed me and threw me into a tree. I was just making my way back when all the dirt was shifted right on top of you. How the hell did you managed to get the lid closed in time, by the way?"

"Blind luck, actually. It's all a little fuzzy, but I remember seeing you go flying backward. I was using the lid of the casket to pull myself up and in the corner of my eye, I saw the pile of dirt move. I just reacted. I knew I didn't have time to get out of the hole, so I fell back down and pulled the lid with me."

"Damn. That was blind luck," Dean said. "Anyway, I dug you out. Nothing bothered me the whole time, and it must have been at least thirty minutes of digging. Got you breathing again and lit the bitch on fire."

Sam's hand went to the ache in his chest, the ribs that were most likely bruised. _And by 'got you breathing again' you mean five or six rounds of CPR? Way to skip over important details, Dean._ He caught his brother's eye, but Dean looked away, and Sam knew better than to say anything else about it.

"Sam, how long were you conscious down there?"

He'd floated in and out of consciousness a few times. The last time, Sam had woken to very little breathable air and he'd panicked. It was the body's natural reaction to the trauma and oxygen deprivation, he knew. Trapped in the casket, with no idea how long he'd been down there, and now unable to draw a deep breath, he'd started frantically hitting the inside lid of the casket.

He caught Dean looking at the carefully taped bandages around his knuckles.

"I'm not sure. Not very long," he lied. He changed the subject quickly. "So, we're thinking it was our witch, right? Rebecca Barnett?" asked Sam.

"Well, she never actually showed her face, but I'll bet she wasn't thrilled we were trying to gank her for good." Dean took the final swig of his beer and smirked. "I'm gonna hit the shower. I smell like graveyard dirt and vomit from taking care of your ass all night."

"Hey, did I puke in the Impala?" Sam asked, a stray memory floating to the surface_. His face against the cool window and then the sudden churning in his stomach. 'Pull over, Dean. Now…'_

Dean scoffed. "Please, the day you toss your cookies in my car is the day you're walking home."

"Right, of course." He watched Dean gather up his clothes for a shower and shut the bathroom door.

Sam laid his head back on the ice pack. The aspirin he'd taken wasn't doing much to ease the pain in his skull. In fact, it felt worse. He closed his eyes, hoping that would help.

When he opened his eyes again, Dean was tossing the pizza box on the bed. He'd apparently showered, dressed and paid for the pizza while Sam dozed. Dean sat across from him and handed him a slice before devouring his own. They ate in companionable silence and when Sam was sure he'd managed to keep his food down, he announced he was ready to hit the showers.

His headache continued to throb just behind his eyes, causing him to squint as he gathered up his clothes. He was within feet of the bathroom door when the pain in his head erupted, a blinding spark of light across his vision. The pain brought him to his knees, the clothing in his hands falling beside him forgotten. A rushing in his ears drowned out Dean's frantic calls. Sam brought his hands up to his head, gripping his temples and pushing inward. He heard screaming, muffled and distant, and it took him a moment to realize the screaming was coming from his own mouth. He began to shiver uncontrollably, the shivers quickly morphing into a seizure. The last sensation he recalled before merciful unconsciousness was Dean's hands grabbing him by the shoulders, stopping him from toppling over.

End Chapter 5

Thanks so much for reading and reviewing! You are all awesome!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: **

Wow, you guys. I suck. I am so sorry that this update is so late. Real life came and kicked my $$ everyday for the past 2 weeks (and twice on Sundays). I was unable to even think about writing. And then, when I finally got back on board and could wrap my brain around fandom once again, this story decided it wanted to be written out of order. So, I wrote bits and pieces of the next 3 chapters before my brain decided it was okay to write chapter 6. Yeesh!

Anyway, here is chapter 6. Good news, chapter 7 and 8 are almost finished, too!

Thanks again to all of you who have reviewed and favorited- I hope you continue to stick around. There's lots more fun to be had in this 'verse.

~Nicole

**Chapter 6**

_**December 23**__**rd**__**, 2003**_

_**Palomar Hospital**_

_**Escondido, CA**_

Sam Winchester's long strides took him from the admittance desk to ICU room 405 quickly. He was familiar with hospitals. The stillness of an ICU always unnerved him. He'd spent enough time in hospitals through the years that he sometimes wondered if he should be considering medical school instead of law school.

He stood in the doorway of room 405, his hand gripping the side of the door frame. He hadn't seen Dean in over a year, and while they had parted on good terms, Sam's decision to leave had laid the foundation for a wall between them. Each month he'd been gone, every missed phone call or awkward long-distance conversation had laid a few more bricks and the wall had gotten taller with time. He felt it now just as keenly as he'd felt it the day he'd shown Dean the Stanford admittance letter. The first brick had been laid that day, even though it was months before Sam announced he was actually leaving.

He watched Dean now from his position in the doorway. Dean stared at the ceiling tiles, a nurse moving around the bed taking vitals and checking machines. Aside from the visible injuries, his brother didn't really look any different than when Sam had left and that struck him as odd. Sometimes Sam felt as though he'd been away from his dad and Dean for a lifetime. Sam had changed so much in his time away, it seemed strange that Dean would look the same.

Sam took a moment to catalogue the injuries he could see from the doorway. Dean's face was haggard and he hadn't shaved in days. There was a line of stitches just above his brow and purple and yellow bruising on the side of his face. His left arm was in a hard, white cast up to his elbow and a tube ran from under the sheet to his chest and back up to a machine at the side of his bed. He had an IV in his right hand and a nasal cannula providing oxygen.

"Take a picture. It'll last longer."

Sam and the nurse both jumped at Dean's unexpected voice. The nurse caught sight of Sam in the doorway. He reached his arm around to scratch at the back of his neck and he gave her a sheepish smile that he hoped said '_Please forgive my brother, I know he can be an ass.'_ He let go of the doorframe and took a seat next to Dean's bed as the nurse left the room.

For what seemed like an eternity only the beeping of the monitors and the whir of the blood pressure cuff could be heard. Dean scrutinized Sam and Sam waited. He wanted to say something, but the look in Dean's eyes caught him off guard. There was pain, suspicion, curiosity, and not a hint of recognition.

Sam let Dean continue to observe him until his older brother finally sighed.

"Alright, I give up man. I don't recognize you. Are you Sam?"

It shouldn't have hurt, but Sam had to admit that it did. Deep down, Sam had believed he would show up at the hospital and jog Dean's memories and everything would be okay. It was hard to believe that his big brother, who had practically raised him and had looked after him most of his life, didn't remember him.

"Yeah, Dean. I'm your brother Sam," he said, feeling a little foolish. "How do you feel?"

"Alright, I guess. Breathing is kind of a bitch and I feel like one big bruise all over."

His answer gave away everything that was wrong with this scenario. Dean, with all of his memories and everything that made him _Dean_, would have said he felt fine and then insulted Sam's masculinity. This Dean lacked personal defense mechanisms and walls and had answered honestly. It was unnerving and Sam wasn't sure how to proceed.

"Do you remember what happened to you? What are you even doing in California?"

He watched Dean search for answers, his hazel eyes squinting and darting back and forth, coming up short. "I just remember waking up on the side of the road. I was bleeding and pretty messed up, but I don't remember how I got that way. I'm not even sure how I managed to drive myself out of there-"

Sam suddenly sat up straighter, realizing the trouble Dean could be in here. "Where's your car, Dean?"

"My car? You mean that black Chevy?"

Sam had to bite back a laugh. He shouldn't have been surprised, but Dean not remembering his car was practically blasphemy. The car was part of the family as far as Dean was concerned and, although Dean denied it, Sam was pretty sure he'd named it, too. He certainly talked to it like it was a person.

"_That black Chevy?_ You'd better not let the Impala ever hear you say that," Sam said, jokingly. He lowered his voice. "Yes, the car that has the huge arsenal in the back. Where is it? Please tell me the cops didn't get their hands on it, Dean."

Dean's eyes darted to Sam's. "You know about all those weapons?" he asked, a bit hesitantly.

Sam tried to keep the _duh _out of his voice. "Yes, Dean. I know about the weapons. Where's the Impala?"

"I don't know, man. I passed out on a lawn in the middle of frigging _suburbia_! I don't even know what town I was in." Dean lowered his voice again, conspiratorially. "So, why do I have so many weapons? Am I like a bounty hunter or something?"

"Yeah, something like that. Listen I have to get to the car before the authorities do, okay? Is there someone here who might know where to find it?"

"The doctor said I landed on the lawn of an off-duty EMT. I left the car around there, somewhere. And- oh! I have the keys right here." Dean pointed to a bag labeled Patient's Belongings on the side table.

"Okay, listen Dean. I'm going to find the car and bring it back here," Sam said, swiping the keys off the table. "Hopefully it's right where you left it."

Dean nodded, a look in his eyes that Sam couldn't place.

"What's wrong?"

Dean cleared his throat. "You're coming back, right Sam? 'Cause I have, ya know, a lot of questions."

Sam sighed and let his face soften as he rubbed his eyes. He was tired. He'd just driven for hours and the adrenaline and fear he'd felt at finding out his big brother was in the hospital (_alone_) had worn down and left relief in its wake at seeing Dean relatively okay. But he kept forgetting that he wasn't dealing with the usual Dean right now. This Dean was scared and confused and didn't remember Sam. This Dean wanted answers. Hell, he probably wanted to sit and have a long conversation about their lives, and that was definitely not something Dean would normally want. Dean would avoid talking, caring and sharing like the plague.

"I will come right back, and we'll sort all of this out. And don't worry, Dean. This memory thing is temporary. You'll get them back and everything will be fine."

Dean didn't look too convinced.

***

Sam only had to wait a few minutes down in the ER. The double doors swung open and a young man about Dean's age stuck his hand out.

"I'm Matt Wilkes. You must be Sam? Brother of the man that face-planted on my front lawn?"

Sam smiled and shook the man's hand. "Yeah, but we just call him Dean."

Matt smiled back and motioned for Sam to follow him through the double doors taking them from the waiting room to the inner hallways of the ER. "I'm glad I happened to be here. We just came in off a call, and my shift ends in a bit, so I was finishing up some paperwork. How's your brother doing?"

They stopped at a tall counter in an administrative area and Matt continued to fill out paperwork while talking. Sam leaned against the nearest wall, watching the staff hustle back and forth from the various rooms. He hated the stillness of the ICU, but the frenzied ER wasn't much better.

"He seems to be doing pretty well. His memory hasn't come back, yet. I was kind of hoping you might be able to fill in some gaps."

"Sure, of course. It's not every day someone drives into my neighborhood and proceeds to try and die on my lawn, you know. I'm just glad I could help. And I'm real glad he's doing okay. He was pretty messed up. We weren't sure he was going to make it."

The cold weight that settled in Sam's gut at the EMT's words was familiar but unexpected. He'd talked to Dean on the phone, and seen him in the hospital room. He'd been banged up and missing some vital information, but Sam hadn't realized how bad Dean had been.

"So that was a couple of days ago, right?" asked Sam.

"Yeah, that would have been Sunday. About midday. I was watering the lawn when I saw your brother stumbling up to my house. I don't think he even saw me. He would have been hard to miss, though. He was moving real slow, dragging his feet, you know, like he didn't have the energy to lift 'em up off the ground. His face was covered in blood on one side. His shirt had a few tears across it, almost like a knife or sword had slashed back and forth- you know, like zorro- and the cuts there were bleeding pretty steadily, too. I walked up to him and was bout ten yards away when he started choking and coughed up blood. He just fell over onto the grass before I could catch him." Matt put the pen down and handed the paperwork across the countertop to the receptionist, telling her to have a Merry Christmas. He turned back to Sam and mimicked his position against the wall. "My wife called 911 and I stayed with your brother until they got there. He stopped breathing at one point. I had to perform CPR until the rig got there and they took over. I rode here with him, just to make sure they had all the information they might need."

"I had no idea he'd been that bad off," Sam said, swallowing his shock. "Thank God you were there."

"No, it was nothing. Just doing my job, you know. Glad I could help."

"Well, thanks. You saved his life," Sam said, sincerely. He stuck his hand out and shook Matt's hand again. "You don't happen to know how Dean got to your house, do you? Did you see his car anywhere?"

"That sweet Chevy?" Matt's eye lit up at the mention of Dean's car. "Hell yeah, I saw that car."

"You did?"

"Yeah, it's still parked by my house. My wife said I should have it towed, but I wasn't about to let a tow truck near it if I could help it. They aren't gentle on the cars, you know. Besides, it was parked properly and locked up. It wasn't in the way or anything. I figured someone from his family would come looking for it soon enough- and here you are."

"Dean is going to be so glad to hear that, really. He may not remember right now, but that car is everything to him." Sam held the keys up. "You mind telling me where I can find it?"

"I can do you one better. I'm off in twenty and headed home. I'll give you a ride to it."

Forty minutes later Sam was shaking Matt's hand again and unlocking the Impala. The streetlight illuminated the interior just enough for Sam to see the blood stains on the leather seat and the steering wheel. Sam laid his jacket down across the seat and tried to avoid the random blood spots until he pulled into the nearest gas station. The car was low on fuel so he filled it up and spent the idle time scrubbing the blood off the seat and steering wheel. Dean would flip, once he remembered that he cared, if blood stayed on his car any longer than necessary. Sam wiped the windows down as well, cleaning what must have been a few day's worth of dust layers.

When he finally pulled into the hospital's parking garage he backed into a spot on a mostly abandoned top floor and proceeded to check the trunk's supply. He wasn't as familiar with what should be back there these days, but nothing looked amiss and Dean's favorite weapons were all accounted for. His 9mm Beretta had blood on the handle and Sam took an extra moment to wipe it clean, just in case. Dean's duffel with a change of clothes and his wallet were among the finds, and Sam pulled out the ID and medical card that read Dean Markson.

Sam stuffed the ID cards and the bag of cheeseburgers and fries he'd picked up (that he was sure the hospital staff would not approve of) into his backpack and headed to elevator. He jabbed a finger on the number four and wondered how he was going to explain to his memory-impaired big brother that monsters were real.

**End Chapter 6**

**Thanks for reading! Reviews are like chocolate covered strawberries without the calories ;-)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: **Thanks again for all the reviews and story favorites. It means a lot to hear from you all! Hope you enjoy this chapter. I must be getting wordy or something, 'cause the chapters are getting longer each time, LOL.

**Chapter 7**

_**February 2008**_

_**Rancho Sante Fe, CA –**_

_**Motel just outside of Elfin Forest**_

Dean threw down his slice of pizza and was across the room in seconds. He skidded to a halt on his knees in front of his brother and said Sam's name over and over, searching his face for comprehension. Sam's hands went to his temples and his eyes squeezed shut. Sam pitched forward, losing his equilibrium. Dean grabbed Sam under his armpits and held him upright just as the screaming began. It started as a low moan in the back of Sam's throat, but quickly escalated into a wail that Dean had never heard from a living being. A sound he hoped to hell he never heard from his little brother again.

Sam continued to scream and clutch at his head, his upper body lolling from side to side. Dean's grip under his arms was the only thing keeping Sam upright. Dean called Sam's name, pleaded with him- _please, Sammy, what the hell is wrong, stop, stop, STOP!-_ but if his brother could hear him he showed no sign of it. A tremor began to build, just a shiver in Sam's arms and legs at first. In moments, Sam was in full on convulsions and Dean had to release his clutch on his arms in favor of laying his brother flat on the floor. Sam's body jerked and seized, his jaw clenched tight and his eyes screwed shut. The screaming stopped in favor of a growling sound coming from behind Sam's teeth.

Even while Dean's heart raced and the fear clutched at his throat, he knew better than to hold Sam down. He'd read it somewhere, or maybe his dad had mentioned it in one of their first aid 'classes'. Dean put his hands under his brother's head and did his best to cushion any damage the seizing might do to his already concussed brain. It lasted for nearly thirty seconds, and then the shaking stopped suddenly.

Sam's head fell back onto Dean's hands and his body went slack. The room fell silent. The fear released its hold on Dean's throat and chest. His body sagged, his hands still holding vigil under Sam's head, and he pulled in a shaky breath and released it.

_What the hell was that?_

Despite the trauma just moments ago, Sam looked peaceful on the motel room floor. His breathing was quicker than usual, but not labored. Dean pulled his hands away from Sam's head, wiping them off onto the carpet. Sam was drenched in sweat. Dean watched as droplets beaded up on Sam's forehead and then ran down his temples. Sam shivered, and Dean prepared himself for another round of seizures, but they didn't come. Hesitantly, as though he knew what he would find, Dean reached his hand out and rested his fingertips on Sam's forehead. He pulled his fingers away quickly, Sam's skin uncomfortably hot to the touch.

Dean jumped into action, grabbing Sam by the armpits again and dragging him toward the bathroom. He was dead weight and slippery with sweat, making the journey that much harder. He thanked God that there was no tub. He wasn't sure he would have been able to lift Sam into it. Instead, Dean dragged his brother into the shower stall and propped him against the tiled wall across from the nozzle. He peeled off Sam's shirt, undershirt, shoes and socks and then stepped back , directing the shower head down and away from his brother's face and turning on the cool water.

Sam's body jerked once with the shock of the cold, but he didn't wake. Dean swallowed the painful lump in his throat and took a quick second to grab a bottled water and the first aid kit. He laid a towel on the floor between them and crouched down next to his brother. The cool water splashed off of Sam and onto Dean- he'd be soaked in minutes.

"Sam? C'mon wake up." He gave his brother's shoulder a shake, still shocked at the temperature of his skin. "Sammy? God Sam, come on. I don't know what the hell is wrong with you. You gotta wake up."

Dean didn't like the desperate tone his voice had taken, but he couldn't help it. The last twenty-four hours had sucked beyond belief. Sam buried alive and CPR and concussion and now seizures and screaming and a fever that rivaled an oven, and that didn't even count the fact that he was sitting on the blue-tiled floor of a dirty bathroom while he tried to get his brother's fever to break and _Sammy wake the hell up!_

As if on cue, Sam's eyes opened lazily. Dean watched as his brother's eyes rolled in their sockets and his lashes fluttered, struggling up to consciousness.

"Hey, little brother. Here, take a drink." Dean put the water bottle to his brother's lips and tilted it up. He placed his other palm on Sam's forehead, relieved that the skin there felt much cooler. "Do you think you could swallow some Tylenol, Sam? You've got a real high fever-"

Sam jerked forward, swallowing shower water for his trouble. Dean reached out an arm, stopping his brother from falling over and pushed him gently back to rest on the tile wall. Sam's teeth began to chatter violently as he spoke, the incomprehensible words tumbling out between shivers. Dean reached up and turned the water off. He wrapped a towel around Sam's shoulders and tried to make sense of his brother's rambling.

"Sam, listen to me. Calm down, okay? Can you tell me what happened? Hey, look at me. Sam? Sammy?"

A few deep breaths later, Sam's shivering was under control. He turned his head to Dean, droplets of water chasing each other down the length of Sam's bangs and onto his face. His eyes were glassy as they struggled to focus on Dean. Sam's lips were dry and he licked them quickly before speaking.

"I had a vision."

***

Sam's body fluctuated between shivering and burning up as he exchanged his wet clothes for the dry ones Dean handed him. He left the wet jeans on the floor and crawled into his bed, pulling the covers up and over his shoulders as he tried to banish the chill. His head was pounding harder now, a steady beat, and when he opened his eyes to find Dean the room blurred at the edges. He shut his eyes and called out instead.

"What the hell happened to me, Dean?" Sam touched his tongue to the inside of his cheek and tasted the familiar metallic tang of blood. He must have bitten his cheek during the seizures.

His bed dipped and creaked just to the right of his arm and Sam popped an eye open to confirm Dean's presence. The room was less blurry so he opted to try out both eyes. Dean wasn't looking at him, but Sam could see his brother's profile clearly. Dean's brows were pinched together and his jaw was clenched so tight that his cheek twitched involuntarily. Sam watched Dean's throat constrict as he swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"I don't know. You tell me man. You said you had a vision?"

Dean's voice was strained, pitched just slightly higher than usual. No one but Sam would have ever noticed the difference.

Sam's body temperature suddenly flared to the other extreme and he kicked the comforter off quickly. He was sweating again, the warm fluid dripping down his temples, neck and back. He grabbed for the still cool, wet towel on the edge of the bed and dabbed at his face.

"Yeah, it was definitely a vision-"

"You've never had seizures or turned into a human toaster oven before with the visions, Sam," Dean said. At some point, Dean had filled the motel's ice bucket with ice and water. He dipped a washcloth in, wrung it out and laid it on Sam's forehead. Handing Sam another water bottle he said, "I thought your psychic crap was gone? Is this the first vision you've had since yellow-eyes died?"

"It's the first. I thought I was done with the visions, too." His temperature swung again and he pulled the blanket up but didn't bother removing the washcloth. His arms felt heavy and the room was starting to blur again as his headache ramped up for another round. It was a familiar feeling and he suddenly felt the need to tell Dean, quickly, about his vision before he got hit with another one. "I saw the graveyard we were at last night, Rebecca Barnett's headstone. And then the vision jumped to a cabin in the woods, in Elfin Forest. I got the feeling the cabin was on the same property as the old graveyard, too. Like, just beyond the trees or something. There was a young woman in the cabin, but she flickered a few times like a spirit. I don't know how I know, but it was Rebecca. Our salt and burn didn't kill her spirit, Dean."

The pain in his head rose steadily and he was compelled to throw the blanket off again as his temperature skyrocketed. He felt his hands begin to shake and the room seemed to tilt and jerk under him.

Dean ran his hand over his face. "The visions were always connected to Yellow Eyes, but this one was different, right? The seizures and abnormally high temperature… you think the witch is responsible? Maybe it's some kind of hex?"

"It's possible. But Dean, if that's true, then these visions might be coming directly from Rebecca's spirit."

"Which would mean a trap. She's luring us there." Dean conceded. "Either way, I have to finish the job. Break the spell, if that's what it is."

"Yeah, but-"

Sam jerked his right hand to his head as the pain blinded him for a moment (_Bobby, gripping a shot gun and standing guard in front of the motel door; Sam yelling for Bobby to get out of his way NOW)_. When he opened his eyes again, Dean was staring at him. He saw the moment comprehension dawned on Dean's face and his brother reached out to grab Sam's shoulder. Dean's eyes widened, the fear plain on his face as he realized another vision was coming. Sam couldn't hold back the shaking in his hands, the shaking that was now spreading. Sweat poured down his face as his body tried in vain to cool itself. Another blinding flash (_Dean, thrown up against a wood-paneled wall, blood trickling down the side of his face. Rebecca laughing, looking into Dean's eyes and placing her hands on his head, green lightning flickering off her fingertips as Dean screamed-)_

"Sam? _Sam?! _ Look at me. Hey… You're okay-"

Somehow, Sam grabbed onto a lucid moment in between blinding visions and grasped Dean's forearm. He blinked through sweat-soaked hair and blurry vision and made eye-contact with his older brother.

"Don't go alone, Dean-"

Sam's head pulsed, blinding light flashed and he threw his head back- _(Dean falling onto the ground, blood dripping from his lips; Dean, looking…different… laying on the forest floor, wide gashes from an invisible weapon cutting through the skin of his chest) _

"Don't go…" Another flash, and pain blossomed through his head- (_Green lightning hitting Sam in the chest)_

"…she knows you." Sam was on the ground now, someone (_Dean, has to be Dean_) grasping his shoulders and calling his name- (_Dean lifting an elaborate table and upending it; Dean thrown across the room headfirst and sliding into a boneless heap on the floor)_.

He opened his eyes again, searching for Dean's face. Sam was sitting on the floor of the motel. His brother was behind him, arms wrapped tightly around Sam's chest, holding him upright. Sam tilted his head back and to the side, his eyes making contact with Dean's curiously red-rimmed ones.

He had to make Dean understand, but "Please don't g-" was all he managed to say before the seizure hit again and he fell into blackness.

***

Bobby watched as Dean paced a hole in the motel room floor.

Sam's body was still. A thin sheen of sweat covered him, his t-shirt damp with it, his hair sticking to his forehead. He was breathing rapidly and his face twitched every few seconds as if he were dreaming. A shout from Sam caused both men to jump and turn his direction and Dean stopped his pacing long enough to confirm that Sam was still unconscious.

"Dean?"

Dean kept pacing.

"Dean! Sit down, son."

Dean stopped walking the length of the motel room and sat down abruptly on the end of Sam's bed.

Bobby wasn't sure what the boys had been up to, but it was plain to see on Dean's face that the last few days had been hell. It looked liked Dean hadn't slept in a week. His fingers were tapping out a nervous beat on the bedspread near Sam's ankle and he continued to glance back at his brother every few seconds as if waiting for something. Bobby didn't like the look in Dean's eyes much, either. Fear bordering on panic wasn't a look Dean Winchester wore often, and when he did he had a damn good reason for it.

Dean had called Bobby late Saturday night (or early Sunday morning, depending on who you asked). He knew right away that something was wrong and it wasn't just the time of the phone call that tipped him off. The kid's voice had been strained and thin and he'd sounded exhausted. Dean had skipped the "Hello" altogether and jumped right to "Bobby, Sam needs help. We're in California at that salt n' burn you threw us-" Dean had yelled out "Sammy?" and the line had gone dead, but it was all the information Bobby needed. He'd headed to Southern California, trying Dean's cell back periodically. He'd been driving near an hour when Dean had picked up the line, apologizing and giving Bobby directions to their motel.

Bobby sat down on the opposite bed. He lifted his ball cap, ran his hand over his hair and replaced the hat on his head before speaking again.

"Dean, I need you to fill me in here. What have you boys gotten into?"

Dean sighed and it was as if all the air left his body in that one action. Dean's shoulder slumped, he looked Bobby in the eyes for the first time since he'd arrived, and the whole story spilled out: the salt and burn job; Sam buried alive; finding Sam not breathing and having to resuscitate him; the visions and the pain Sam was suffering with them.

"He was seizing on the floor, Bobby. And his skin was burning up." Dean wiped a hand down his face and caught Bobby's eyes. "The last few episodes blood started coming out of his nose and ears… and the _screaming_…" Dean's eyes lost their focus and he shifted them away, but not before Bobby caught the fear hiding behind them. "I didn't know what to do so I called you. Thanks for getting here so fast."

Bobby nodded, casting a glance at Sam. "Would have taken me a helluva lot longer, but I was in Colorado Springs picking up some spare parts when you called. So, the salt and burn of the witch's corpse didn't take care of her? She's the one doing this to Sam?"

"He told me one of his visions was of her and a cabin just beyond the graveyard in Elfin Forest. We burned her bones, but she must have a different source of power. What's happening to Sam, it's some kind of hex or something. I'm going to go after her, finish the job, but I couldn't leave him alone here- not like this. He's lucid sometimes, wakes up from the visions for short periods of time, but I couldn't risk taking him along either."

Dean sat in thought for a long moment, and Bobby waited him out.

"It's almost like the witch is going after Sam, for some reason. Burying him in the grave and putting this spell on him. I was alone in that graveyard for near an hour digging him up and she never laid a finger on me. I was totally exposed, too, no salt lines or anything and she left me alone."

"You sure you should be heading out there alone, Dean?"

"I don't have a choice, Bobby. And I need you here with Sam." Dean stood quickly and began to pack up the duffel. He tossed Bobby the bag of salt and laid one of the loaded shot guns on the nightstand. "You need to lay down salt lines after I leave just in case this is some kind of trick to separate us and she comes after Sam here. Shot gun's loaded with rock salt. If Sam wakes up he's gonna be pissed that I left without him, but he'll get over it. If he has another vision-" Dean glanced back at his little brother and Bobby's heart broke at the helplessness on Dean's face. "If he has another vision, you might have to restrain him. I'll understand if you can't… there's a rope-"

Dean's voice hitched and Bobby stood to lay a hand on his shoulder. "I'll take care of him, son. Don't worry 'bout Sam. Go take care of business."

Dean nodded, grabbed the loaded duffel and his keys and left without looking back.

**End Chapter 7**

More to come soon. Thanks again for reading and reviewing! I love to hear what you think!


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

_**December 25**__**th**__**, 2003**_

_**Palomar Hospital**_

_**Escondido, CA**_

Dean.

Dean.

Dean Winchester.

He rolled the name around his brain a few times. It didn't spark any memories, just as it hadn't since the day his overly tall, floppy-haired brother had walked in and revealed the name to him. Dean sighed and scratched at the short hairs on the back of his neck.

He looked down at the necklace he'd taken from his Patient's Belongings bag. For a guy he sure had a lot of jewelry. The strange amulet stared up at him and he knew he should remember why this was important. The reason itched at the back of his brain, danced on the tip of his tongue. Every time he reached for it, though, it jumped back and danced away.

Though that wasn't to say Dean didn't remember stuff. Somehow, his brain had decided to wake him up with horribly realistic nightmares a few times each night. Nightmares that would give Friday the 13th or that Blair Witch shit a run for its money (_and why his brain insisted on remembering bad horror movies and not his own family… well, that was a constant source of frustration)_. His nightmare self hunted ghosts, dug up graves, fired shot guns and got hurt a whole hell of a lot. In fact, the Dean Winchester in his dreams was a badass.

Dean shifted in the hospital bed. He was itching to get up and move around. The doctor was talking about taking the chest tube and catheter out today, which would mean some more mobility for Dean. Barring any complications, he could be released in the next few days- into Sam's care of course. He wasn't to be driving or doing anything other than resting for at least two weeks. Sam needed to get back to school, but had offered to let him rest up at his place in Palo Alto, which sounded good to Dean. His head was feeling much better, the blurry vision and headaches from the concussion gone since yesterday evening. The lacerations on his chest and torso were healing nicely, or so the doctor had proclaimed. His ribs were still sore, both to the touch and with every breath. He was sure that moving around would be very painful, but from the comfort of his hospital bed and with the steady flow of pain meds, it was tolerable now. He still had to remember to keep the breaths controlled and the monologue-ing to a minimum.

He cast a glance at Sam who was sleeping in the bedside chair. His long legs were stretched out onto the end of Dean's bed, propped precariously and crossed at the ankles. Sam snored lightly, his arms crossed and head lolled to the side. It looked entirely uncomfortable. Dean had urged him to get a motel room or something, but Sam had just laughed- _yeah, I'm gonna leave my injured brother in the hospital alone,_ he'd said. And he hadn't left much at all since going to find the car that first day. Sam had stepped out once or twice to use the phone, and Dean had overheard him leaving a very angry message to their dad. The hospital staff had been more than lenient with the visiting rules. Sam had said he'd given them the dewy, puppy dog eyes and they were all rendered helpless. Plus, it was Christmas. Dean couldn't argue with that.

This most recent nightmare, though, had Dean wanting to kick Sam's precariously balanced feet right off the edge of the bed. He'd had enough of this '_we're bounty hunters'_ b.s. Since Sam had arrived he'd been hiding the truth about Dean's profession, insisting that the family business was bounty hunting, and Dean wasn't going to buy the that anymore. His dreams were telling him otherwise. Not to mention the whole bounty hunter thing was ridiculous and Sam needed to work on his dissembling skills. The kid couldn't lie to save his life.

He inched his foot a little lower in the bed, preparing to make his move. He kicked out, catching Sam's heel and sat back to smirk while the unexpected loss of balance jerked Sam awake. Sam dropped his feet to the ground suddenly, arms searching for purchase on the chair, his heels smacking the tile while he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

"What the hell was that for?" Sam asked. He smoothed his hair from his eyes and ran a hand down his face, wiping the last vestiges of sleep away.

"I was bored. Couldn't sleep," Dean said, still smirking. He took a controlled breath, wincing a bit at the pain it caused in his chest and watched as Sam made the most impressive face Dean could recall seeing: head tilt, eyebrows pinched together so far they almost touched and lips pressed and puckered out just slightly. Throw in the death glare followed by eye roll and it was a classic bitchface.

Since Sam had shown up almost two days ago, they had fallen into an easy rapport. It had seemed strange at first, but Dean had trusted Sam immediately. Even though he couldn't remember Sam specifically, or recall any history, there was no doubt in his mind from the minute Sam stepped into his hospital room that they were brothers. And something else had been there. An almost visceral desire to reconnect and… _protect_, despite not knowing why.

As Dean collected his memory puzzle pieces, he knew Sam was the only one lining up to show him how they all fit. For his part, Sam had tried to fill in some gaps. He'd brought out a photo of he and Dean at Sam's high school graduation. He said it was the most recent photo of them he had. They'd talked about their dad. Sam had wondered if he should be looking for him, but a call to a family friend (Bobby something or other) had given him some peace of mind that John wasn't anywhere near California. Dean hadn't known what to say when Sam had told him about their mom's death twenty years ago. It triggered a feeling of loss and- strangely- _purpose_, but no specific memories. Dean wasn't sure he'd gotten the whole story about her death, either. A house fire was all Sam had offered and Dean hadn't pushed the subject. Yet.

The dreams had started the first night Sam had arrived. Dean guessed 'dream' wasn't really the right word to use, since they weren't fabrications. More like flashbacks, or something. Dreams sounded less new-agey, though, so he was going with that. Dean figured the dreams were his mind's way of recalling his memories. His desire to trust Sam had been validated right away; multiple vivid dreams that first night depicting him and Sam, at various ages, hunting, driving, going to school. He'd asked Sam about them the next day and he'd confirmed the memories more or less.

"You were bored? Super. I'm glad my flailing could entertain you for a moment."

"I had more dreams last night. I'm pretty sure I'm ready for you to drop the act."

"What? What are you talking about?" asked Sam.

"The family business is bounty hunting? I'm not buying what you're selling, Sam. Unless we're collecting bounties on spirits and scary-looking dog… things." Dean raised his eyebrows at Sam's sudden silence. "C'mon, Sam. I know you think my memories are just going to spontaneously download into my brain, but it's been days and that hasn't happened. I need you to fill in some blanks."

Sam's sigh was resigned. He pinched the bridge of his nose, balanced his elbows on his knees and put his chin on top of his folded hands. "I know, I know. I'm sorry, Dean. When I got here, I didn't know how bad the memory loss was going to be. And then I didn't want to scare you off. I wasn't even sure you'd accept that I was your brother, you know, not without proof. And there's… stuff. Bad stuff that I didn't want to overwhelm you with. I just want you to be okay, Dean. I just want you to get better, and I wasn't sure a trip down memory lane was going to help."

"I get that. I do. I'm ready now, though," Dean said. "Besides, my dreams are getting creepier and either I've seen too many horror flicks or I have a way cooler job than 'bounty hunter'."

Sam smirked. "Okay, as long as you're sure. There's some crazy stuff going on out there, and you and Dad are a big part of it, but you might think I'm nuts-"

"Listen, I'm getting the Technicolor version in my head. Stop being such a whiny bitch and get on with the story-telling, Sammy."

Sam's face split into a wide grin.

"What are you grinning at?"

"You called me Sammy. And bitch. You're always calling me a bitch," Sam said, still unable to hide his hopeful smile. "Maybe your memories _are_ coming back."

"I don't know, man. I called the new doctor a sadistic asshole the other day. I think Dean Winchester just has a foul mouth," Dean said, but he felt momentary satisfaction that his recollection had made Sam so optimistic.

"Okay, so for Christmas gift the first, 2003, could you _please_ tell me what this is?" Dean displayed the necklace he'd been holding since he woke up that morning.

Sam's smile widened further. "I gave that to you twelve years ago today. This has got to be the first time I've seen you not wearing it, too." Sam paused, looking like he was lost in his own thoughts for a minute. Then he laughed and rolled his eyes. "I gave you that amulet after we had a conversation a lot like the one we're about to have now… just reversed. That Christmas you… drew back the curtain, so to speak, and told _me_ about the family business.

"I guess it's my job this Christmas to return the favor."

***

_**December 30**__**th**__**, 2003**_

_**Outside Palomar Hospital**_

_**Escondido, CA**_

Sam helped Dean into the passenger seat of the Impala, thanked the nurse who had wheeled Dean out and jumped in the driver's seat. He carefully laid the medical release forms and instructions in the back near Dean's duffel and pulled out of the hospital parking lot.

Dean groaned and Sam tossed a look in his direction. He was starting to sweat and his face was pinched in what was obviously pain. Dean had his right arm wrapped around his ribcage and the other, with its hard, white cast, held up to his chest, the fingers of his left hand splayed across his collar bone.

"Man, this was so much less painful when I had the hospital bed and constant drip of medication. Who thought riding around in the car was a good idea?"

"You did. You said 'Get me out of here, Sam. I'm going to start taking hostages if I have to stay here another minute'," Sam replied, parroting Dean impressively. "Besides, you'd stayed there long enough. We were already pushing it insurance-wise."

"Whatever. Just take it easy on the pot-holes, alright?"

"You're due for some more pain medication," Sam said, indicating the prescription bottles that laid on the seat between them. Dean reached for them immediately and swallowed down the prescribed concoction.

They had turned onto West Valley Parkway and the sign ahead promised the 15 Freeway to be just a few miles more. From there they'd head North on the 15 to Palo Alto and Stanford University. Sam had called ahead and told Jessica his plans and she'd offered to make them both dinner tonight. She had a key to his place and had been keeping up with his mail while he was away.

He thought about the silver money clip in his back pocket and smiled. Jess had given it to him as an early Christmas gift. They were going to visit with her family on Christmas Eve, but Dean's phone call from the hospital had caused a change of plans and so they'd hurriedly exchanged gifts in the parking lot. She'd had it engraved with a simple flowing script, his initials _S.W._ Sam had owned very little indulgences in his life, and he was pretty sure he'd never owned any with his name or initials engraved on it. His family spent most of their time trying to _hide_ their identity, change their names, or just plain living under false guises. Jess' gift was perfect, a last step in distancing himself from the family game of hide-and-seek. He had something now, a tangible possession with his name on it. He didn't have to hide anymore and could live his own (_real_) life, and that was all he ever wanted.

Beside him, Dean seemed to have found a comfortable position. He was sitting quietly, watching the stores go by out the window as they neared the onramp for the 15 Freeway. He wasn't humming or singing or fidgeting with the radio, or tapping his fingers to a beat. He hadn't asked about his god-awful tape collection or his favorite leather jacket. He hadn't even tried to drive (not that Sam would have let him).

Sam had given him as much information about their family and life as possible. Starting at the beginning with their mom's death and continuing on through Sam's admission to Stanford. He'd explained the family business with as much detail as possible. Dean had been entertained and curious, but Sam wondered how much his brother really believed. Sam had to admit it was a lot to take in. He'd explained how he and Dad butted heads and weren't on speaking terms these days. In all fairness, Sam had gone pretty easy on their father when recounting the Winchester history. Dean and Sam didn't see eye-to-eye on their dad or his parenting skills, and it seemed unfair to feed Dean only Sam's biased side of the story (even though Sam knew his version was _right_); could have gotten away with it, too, since Dean didn't remember much of anything about John Winchester.

Still, Dean was acting so _not-Dean_. Sam guessed that was the difference between hearing your life story and actually living and remembering it. Right now, most of the tales Sam had recreated for Dean were just stories and facts without any emotions attached. Dean was beginning to remember bits and pieces, though. He'd ask a random question (_Hey, Sam? We ever go to South Dakota? Is that where that Bobby guy lives?)_ and Sam would smile and know that something had just triggered a memory for Dean. So he tried not to worry, tried to believe that everything that made his big brother _Dean_ would come flowing back soon.

"That medicine kicking in yet, Dean?"

Dean grunted an affirmative, laying his head against the cool glass.

"So, we going to try and find Dad? Does he usually take off on… hunts for this long?" asked Dean.

They hadn't been able to pin down just how long John Winchester had been gone. Dean's memories of before his hospital stay, whatever it was that had injured him, weren't showing signs of returning. Their dad could have been gone anywhere from ten days to three weeks.

"Well, Bobby said he'd heard indirectly that Dad was on something's trail out in Clifton, New Jersey. A devil's gate or something. He hadn't seen or spoken to him, but whoever threw him the tip said he'd seen Dad within the last week. Bobby said "hi" by the way. Told you to stop hitting your head or you were gonna end up a vegetable someday."

"So, you're not worried? About our dad?"

Loaded question. "No, he can take care of himself," Sam said. "Besides, you can't do anything to help him right now. You've got to rest and heal up. Dad wouldn't have taken off if he didn't think he could handle it alone." That was probably a bold faced lie, but a necessary one. He needed Dean to focus on getting better. Dad would show up, answer his phone. Eventually.

Although, Sam doubted he'd managed to ingratiate himself to their dad- not with the phone message he'd left for his dad a week ago. Sam had come back from picking up the Impala, given Dean the cheeseburger and fries (with strict instructions to hide them from the nurses) and stepped outside the room to try their dad's cell one last time. Sam had been furious after hearing the EMT's recounting of finding Dean on his lawn, near-death and torn up. He'd called his dad from Dean's phone ('cause he was pretty sure his dad wouldn't answer a call from Sam's own cell) and laid out all the ways in which John Winchester was a selfish bastard. Not the least of which was how John left his eldest son alone on a hunt where Dean nearly got killed and then refused to answer his phone when said amnesiac son was searching for someone who could tell him who he was.

"Yeah, I get it. Rest and relax and wait. Good times."

Sam glanced over briefly, just long enough to catch his brother's eyes drifting shut and his body relaxing against the door. He flicked the radio on, tuning it to something a little more Sam's own style.

He figured Dean wouldn't remember that he hated Sam's music.


	9. Chapter 9a

**Author's Note:** Wow, this chapter really had a lot more than I planned, so I'm posting in two parts, 9a and 9b.

Enjoy!

**Chapter 9**

_**-9a-**_

_**December 30**__**th**__**, 2003**_

_**Just outside Palo Alto, CA**_

Dean jerked awake in the passenger seat of the Impala just as Sam was maneuvering off the 101 freeway. He glanced at the street signs to determine where they were: Palo Alto. He'd managed to sleep almost the whole way. He unfolded himself from the door, his ribs screaming in protest. He'd also managed to sleep through his next dose of pain medication. That would make him both sore and cranky.

"Good nap, Sleeping Beauty?" Sam asked, the grin on his face evident in his voice. Dean reached for the water bottle and medication and swallowed it down. Some crap, emo country music was playing on his radio-

"Sam?"

"What?"

"I remember…" Dean replied slowly, his voice betraying how suspicious he was of his good fortune. "Everything. Well, no, not everything. I still can't remember how I got injured, but-"

"Dean, that's amazing," Sam said as he pulled onto Embarcadero Road. They were just a couple of miles away from Stanford. "Kind of strange, though, right? Just like a switch was flipped-_click- _you have all your memory back? That must have been some nap."

Dean snatched his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket and flipped it on. Sam was still rambling about the brain and how it heals or some such crap, but worry was gnawing at Dean's stomach.

"Sam, shut up. What about Dad?"

"What about him, Dean? We talked about this. I called Bobby and he said Dad was following some lead in New Jersey."

"Yeah, I know. But the last time I heard from Dad was… Oh God." Dean slumped back in his seat and let his head fall. "December 5th, Sam."

Sam thought about it for a couple of beats before realization dawned on him. "Mom's birthday."

"Yeah."

"Okay, so what? So he left on Mom's birthday? Dean, we'll call him. We'll call Bobby again and check in. Or we can try some of Dad's other contacts. I don't see where this changes anything."

"Well, you weren't here last year. You were off being Joe College, remember?"

"Dean, c'mon. Let's not start this crap again," Sam said. "It's been over a year now. Besides, we've been getting along just fine for the last week-"

"Because I couldn't remember I was mad at you," Dean pointed out.

Silence descended between them as they both mourned the easy camaraderie they'd had for the past week. The wall that was 'John Winchester and the family drama' was between them again, now, and they both seemed to know where this conversation was going to end.

Dean sighed. "I found him a week later, two towns over, drunk off his ass last year after Mom's birthday. You left for school earlier that year, and he just- He started leaving on solo hunts more often, just sneaking out in the middle of night. No notes, no 'be right back'. Scared the shit out of me a dozen times, but he was never gone more than a week. Tops." Dean flipped his phone open again and stared at it as if it held all the answers. "Now this. It's been more than three weeks. He's not okay, Sam."

They'd reached a large open parking lot on the university grounds and Sam pulled into the nearest open space. Sam threw the car into park roughly and Dean almost protested the abuse to his car, but the look in Sam's eye brought his protest to a halt.

"Dean, no."

"I didn't even ask anything," Dean said.

"I know where this is going. Dean you are in no condition to go running off after Dad!"

"It's a couple of cracked ribs and a broken wrist, Sam. I didn't lose a leg."

"Just five days ago you had a tube in your chest keeping your lung from collapsing and you were peeing through a catheter. It's more than a few broken bones, Dean," Sam replied. His voice was raising steadily, as if he knew he was losing this fight and the only way to win would be through sheer force. "Fifteen minutes ago you didn't even know who you were! What are you going to do to help him? Huh? You can hardly walk ten steps on your own without getting winded. You'll just be in the way."

"Dad needs me Sam. We watch each other's backs," Dean said. He was lowering his voice on purpose. Sam was always hot-headed and loud in an argument, but Dean knew that reacting calmly and quietly would infuriate Sam even more. "That's what family does."

"Dean, Dad left you behind. If needed you so bad, he would have ordered you to go along."

"Get out of the car, Sam."

Sam's face fell and he shook his head. "No, Dean. No. C'mon, man. This is stupid," Sam replied, the anger seeping out of his voice. "Just come upstairs, meet Jessica. She's making us dinner. You can rest up for a few days and I swear I'll help you do research, whatever you need."

"Sam, I'm not just going to sit here on my ass eating homemade apple pies while Dad is out there alone. No. Give me the keys." Dean put his hand out doing his best not to wince when the jolt of pain shot through his ribs.

"Dean-"

"Sam-" he mimicked. "You're so worried about me, then come along. We can find Dad, take a little road trip. It'll be like the good old days, ya know?"

Sam actually laughed. "Good old days? When were those exactly?"

"What do you mean? We had lots of good times. We used to be a good team."

"That's not my life anymore and I'm not going to let you drag me back into it. I have a life here, Dean. I have a girl that I really like, and school and friends. I'm not going back."

"Well I can't have those things, Sam. I have hunting and Dad. Okay, I can't leave him because he'll get reckless and he'll get himself killed," Dean said. He caught Sam's eyes. "We need you, too. Stanford is normal and safe, but it isn't who you are-"

"You know what Dean?" Sam held the keys out and dropped them into Dean's hand. "You're my big brother. You should be proud of me, happy that I'm finding my own way. I made my choice to have a normal life and go to school. I'm tired of explaining myself to you, as if I'm doing something wrong! If you can't respect that then we don't have anything to talk about anymore."

Dean clenched the keys in his fist and watched Sam leave the car. Sam grabbed his duffel from the backseat, turned and gave a small nod in Dean's direction and walked away. He watched his brother until he disappeared between two buildings. Dean remained in the passenger seat, taking small, controlled breaths and willing his pulse to slow down to a normal pace. His vision had started to blur and his chest was aching from the yelling and arguing.

When he felt able to, he switched to the driver's seat and pulled out of the parking lot. He made it as far as the freeway before flipping his phone open and dialing Sam. It went straight to voicemail.

"Listen Sam, I was being an asshole. I just wanted to say thanks for, you know, coming down to the hospital and putting up with me. I'm sure I was a better brother when my brain was mush, but I gotta do my job. Someone's got to stick with Dad, right? Anyway, I won't bother you anymore, ok? I won't try to drag you or guilt you into this business anymore. You have a right to live your life… See ya Sammy."

His next phone call was answered on the first ring.

"Dean? Your head on straight now, boy?"

"Not sure if it ever was, Bobby, but it's back to normal. Dropped Sammy off back at school. You got any leads on my dad?"

"Better than that. Guess who just showed up at my door not more'n thirty minutes ago?"

"I'm headed your way, Bobby." Dean paused, taking a relieved breath. "He okay?"

"Mostly. A little banged up." Bobby's voice lowered. "He looks like he hasn't slept in a week and he must'a seen something awful interesting out at that Devil's Gate in Jersey. He's pretty upset about something. He's doing his best to crawl into a bottle of Jack as we speak. I offered him a room, though, and I'll keep him 'round 'til you get here. Just you hurry up, or I'm liable to pump him full of buckshot if he pisses me off too much." Bobby said that last bit with a tinge of humor in his voice, but Dean knew better. John Winchester was fully capable of getting on people's bad sides- it was like a gift.

"Be there soon as I can. Thanks Bobby."

**End part 9a**


	10. Chapter 9b

**Author's Note: **Part **9b**. Make sure you didn't skip part **9a. **

**-9b-**

_**February 2008**_

_**Elfin Forest**_

Dean spread the map out on the hood of the Impala, adjusting the flashlight so the glare off the paper wasn't so blinding, and rechecked his plan. He'd had hours to research the area and local lore while waiting for Bobby to arrive. Sam would have been pissed if Dean had gone out here half-cocked, so Dean had spent the time looking into Rebecca Barnett's background. The Barnett family had owned a small farm on the northern edge of Elfin Forest and had lived there for three generations. Rebecca and her younger sister Elizabeth ran away to join a religious cult, rumored to actually be a witches coven, in Elfin Forest nearly fifty years ago. The girls' family had spent a week looking for them but had been too late. The entire cult, including the young Barnett girls, had committed suicide just days after the girls had joined them.

Since then, the locals in the area had reported dozens of supernatural events: women in white, a witch on a black stallion, cattle mutilations, chanting or singing near the waterways, and a bird (sometimes an owl, other times a crow) that would swoop down and confuse your mind if you entered the forest with bad intentions. Mostly, though, the area had been a lightning rod for teens, party-goers and ghost stories, and the lore had never been backed by factual evidence.

He checked his position on the map. Back at the motel, he'd circled a possible location for the cabin Sam had mentioned. He was currently on Elfin Forest Road, which intersected with Questhaven Road at a point, the two roads forming a 'V'. All the local reports of strange events had happened in between these two roads. A good portion of the land in between was made up of the old cemetery on the western side, bordering Elfin Forest Road, and a gated compound that housed a church right at the point the two roads met. He'd passed the church's sign and the guard at the gate earlier. The map showed a curiously empty area behind the cemetery and he'd decided to start there. The empty spot was at the wider end of the 'V' and he'd be much better off getting to it via Questhaven Road- the only way to it from the other side was through a few miles of trees and rough terrain, which Dean would rather avoid.

He rolled the map up and threw it in the backseat.

He had to backtrack and come at Questhaven Road from the opposite end. The guard at the gate on the southern end hadn't looked friendly and had seemed really into his job. Dean knew better than to try and make it past him. He drove through the outskirts of a residential neighborhood before he hit Questhaven and started heading south.

Trees encircled the narrow street, giving the illusion of driving through a tunnel. As with most unincorporated, wooded areas, small dirt roads branched off the from main road every few miles. Dean reached the mile marker he was looking for and pulled the car as far off the main street as possible without ending up in a ditch. He locked up and headed to the trunk for his already loaded duffel. Slipping his gun in his waistband, cocking the rock salt-loaded shot gun, and loading his pockets with extra salt and rounds, he headed off into the dense, overgrown brush. He flicked on the EMF device in his jacket.

As soon as he crossed into the foliage the air shifted. It was the feeling most people would describe as "giving them the creeps", but it was only hunter's intuition to Dean. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and the temperature dropped steadily. He glanced up at the canopy of trees. Small, wooden stick figures hung from the branches.

For the first time that night, Dean wondered if coming out here, alone, was perhaps the dumbest thing he'd ever done.

Top ten, maybe.

But really, what choice had he had? Sam's visions were getting worse and increasing in their frequency. He couldn't have brought him, and he needed Bobby to stay behind in case Sam had another vision or lapsed into seizures again. It was a spirit, that's all. Dean had handled much worse on solo hunts before.

He was half a mile in when a light caught his eye. A dozen more yards and a ramshackle wood cabin appeared beneath a heavy covering of low hanging branches. The lantern on the porch was the only light for as far as Dean could see.

He crept around the outside of the building, investigating the premises, mapping out the terrain. The cabin was small: only a main room, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen. Two ways in or out: front door or side door from the kitchen. Most of the rooms didn't look like they had been occupied for years, but the lantern on the porch and the scene in the main room told him otherwise. Sitting in the middle was an ornate wooden table. The table was rectangular with detailed scrolling down the sides of each leg and a dark red cloth runner over the top of it, littered with lit candles of various sizes. A few bags of unidentifiable herbs sat atop it along with a jug of thick, red fluid that could only be blood. Dozens of books and a scrying bowl sat on the far end of the table.

During one of his visions, Sam had babbled about an altar in the cabin, and it was as good a guess as any for being the source of the spirit's power. It was plan A: get in, destroy the altar. If that failed, Plan B was the same as C, D, E, and F: burn the whole place down.

Dean opted for the front door. Hefting the salt gun to a defensible position he made his way up the front steps and through the door without incident. He set the lantern on the floor just inside the door to add more light to the dim room. Regardless of the altar's presentation and the welcoming, lit candles and lantern, it didn't look or feel like the spirit was here. The EMF device was silent. Rebecca's spirit wasn't bound to the home, they knew that since she'd been at the cemetery, but Dean was relatively sure she was bound to the forest. For a moment, though, he wondered if he was wrong and if luring Dean away from Sam had been Rebecca's plan all along. _Bobby's with him,_ Dean reassured himself. He knew Bobby was more than capable of warding off her spirit if it came to that.

Gun still raised, he headed straight for the altar. Movement behind him and a sudden blaring of the EMF device sent him swinging around, firing off a shot at the apparition by the front door. The door was forced shut, slamming so hard the wood cracked down the middle and the glass in the adjacent window rattled. The rock salt would only buy him a moment or two. Dean swung back around and upended the table, sending candles, books and herbs flying. He found the clay scrying bowl on the floor and ground it under his heel.

The cabin was silent and still, the only light coming from the lantern by the door. Dean reloaded quickly and grabbed the flashlight from his duffel, making a quick room-by-room search, but Rebecca's spirit didn't re-manifest.

Dean came to a stop in the middle of the main room. Something wasn't right. It didn't feel over, and Dean knew better than to doubt his instincts. He reached into his jacket pocket for his cell phone and began to dial Bobby to see if the spell on Sam had been broken.

No signal. Of course.

He was up against the wall, ice-cold invisible fingers clawing at his neck, before he knew what was happening. He lifted the shot gun and fired at where the nothing had to be and suddenly he was falling down the wall to land back on his feet. It was only a momentary reprieve, however, as his body was thrown back against the wall, this time with the shot gun hand forced up above his head. The spirit slammed Dean's hand into the wood-paneled wall, over and over until Dean's fingers gave up the grip on the shot gun. It clattered to the ground and was thrown across the room out of reach. His whole body was pressed up against the wall now, his throat being slowly crushed under the weight of the invisible hands.

"C'mon," he croaked. "Show yourself you bitch!"

A young woman solidified in front of Dean's eyes. Early twenties, long blonde locks, high, defined cheekbones and heart-shaped face, Rebecca would have been beautiful in life. As it was, though, her eyes betrayed the rest of her looks. They were slate gray and clouded with hatred, a hatred that seemed to be laser-focused on Dean himself. Her hand remained on his throat, the vice-like grip easing just enough to allow him another breath before tightening again.

He tried to lift his arms, kick his legs out, _anything,_ but he was completely immobilized. All Dean could do was glare back into the spirit's eyes and accept each breath she allowed him to take.

He was so screwed.

"Dean Winchester," she said, her voice like silk. "I could only dream, for years, that you'd be stupid enough to walk through my forest again."

She ran her free hand over his confused brow and continued gently down his cheek to his lips. She halted there for a moment, letting her fingertips dance over the soft flesh of his mouth.

"Listen, lady. I don't know y-" Her grip tightened around his throat.

Her fingers stopped dancing on his lips. She laid her index finger against his mouth with a "Shhhhh."

"You don't remember me because we've never been formally introduced. But I am going to give you a gift."

Rebecca extended her free arm out to her side, palm up. The cabin shook as energy gathered at each corner of the room, crackling and sparking like a loose power line. Her palm closed to a fist as she called the energy from the four corners of the room to her hand. She held it up for him to see, her hand glowing and popping with green lightning that jumped and sparked against Dean's cheek.

"Really, you could just let me go. No gifts required," he tried, forcing the words out through her grip on his throat.

An evil smile spread across her features as she placed her hand on his cheek-

-and memories from five years ago that Dean had never believed he'd recollect came flooding back:

_Dean scoured a school newspaper article:_

**Local Teens' Memories Still Gone After Botched Séance:**

**Controversial School Project to Blame?**

*****

"_Dad? I've been looking everywhere for you. Please call me back, let me know you're okay."_

_*_

_Dean glanced at the headstone: _Elizabeth Barnett, Beloved Daughter and Sister._ He dumped salt on the old bones, drenched them in lighter fluid and flicked the match into the casket._

_*_

_Dean ran through Elfin Forest, shooting useless bullets at the spirit that chased him. He'd run out of rock salt rounds and lost his shot gun somewhere along the way. He raised the 9mm Beretta again and fired at the spirit, hoping to distract her at the very least. Then he was flying over the brush, landing on his back in a clearing. The spirit, a beautiful blonde woman, manifested just yards away. She swung her arm in a diagonal slash and pain erupted on his chest, blood spurting through the cut across his torso. She slashed again, the opposite direction and another slice opened up on his chest. _

_He laid still. Panting. Waiting. She moved closer, skimming the forest floor with her bare feet. _

"_You killed her," she said, her voice smooth and melodic. "Elizabeth was my little sister and you killed her."_

"_Your sister was already dead. So are you, in case you missed the memo," Dean said. He grunted as pain exploded behind his eyes as if he'd been kicked in the head. He felt a rib twist and pop and couldn't hold back his strangled scream._

_The spirit wafted forward and bent down beside Dean. "Elizabeth and I, we owned this forest. We protected it." Her form wavered then solidified and Dean made his move. He raised his fist full of salt and threw it at the spirit, not sticking around to listen to her scream or watch her disappear. He picked himself up and ran, holding his arms across his bleeding chest and broken rib. From behind him, the woman screamed, bloodthirsty rage. He was nearing his car, knew it was just a few dozen yards through the brush and down the incline to the road._

_Wind whipped around him, through the trees and lifting leaves and dirt into a whirlwind at his feet. A shock like lightning coursed through him and he almost fell. He gathered up a last burst of speed as the green lightning skidded over his arms, across his collar bone and up to his head. A push from behind sent him down the incline and rolling to a stop by the side of his car._

_*_

Rebecca removed her palm from Dean's cheek and he jolted awake, still pinned to the wall by her hand around his throat. She smiled sweetly again.

"_You_ took my memories?" he rasped. He felt the puzzle pieces clicking together as he replaced three weeks worth of missing time. December 5th 2003. The anniversary of Mom's birthday and Dad had gone missing, leaving Dean behind. He'd looked for him and called him for weeks without any leads. Dean had gotten restless and headed out for a simple job, a spirit some stupid teens had conjured just off Questhaven Road in Elfin Forest, CA. Elizabeth Barnett. Or, at least Dean had _thought_ the teens had conjured her. Apparently Elizabeth and Rebecca had been here all along. He'd woken up in the hospital a few days before Christmas without memories of the hunt, his family, his name… Sam had stayed with him, brought him to Palo Alto, and suddenly Dean's memories, except for the hunt itself, had been replaced back in his head. He and Sam had fought- it was the last time Dean spoke to Sam until he came to ask for his help Sam's senior year- and Dean had left Sam behind and rejoined his dad.

"Just a spell. It was all I could do once you'd passed the forest tree line. I wasn't able to take much for long, but I couldn't let you remember meeting me. I was weak without my sister's power and I couldn't have you coming back to kill me, too. I took just enough to mess with your head for a little while, make you forget everything you loved. The least I could do after you took Elizabeth away from me." Rebecca's eyes hardened and flashed. She removed her hand from Dean's throat and he took a few gulping breaths but remained pinned to the wall. "But! Imagine my surprise when you came back for more… and brought me a new toy to play with. Someone you care about as much as I cared about Elizabeth. I've seen inside little Sammy's head. Now there's a guy who knows a little something about vengeance. When he gets here we can ask him all about it."

Dean didn't speak, but his glare said it all: _touch Sam and I'll kill you… then I'll resurrect you so I can kill you again._

"Sam's already on his way here. I took the liberty of calling him- a vision he won't be able to ignore."

**end part 9b**

I would love some feedback on parts 9a and 9b. They really put me through the wringer and I hope they worked and read well for everyone. More to come!


	11. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: **Hope everyone is still enjoying the story. Two chapters left after this (and an epilogue). Comments and reviews are much appreciated.

**Chapter 10**

_**February 2008**_

_**Rancho Sante Fe, CA –**_

_**Motel just outside of Elfin Forest**_

Bobby sifted through the papers Dean had left behind. He didn't like this plan, not one bit. Dean running off alone to the middle of some forest to fight a spirit sounded like the worst plan ever, in fact. He also didn't see much else in the way of options. Bobby had to give Dean some credit, too. The boy had done his homework on the case and had been smart enough to leave copies of the Barnett Family history and a map showing where Dean was going.

He tossed a glance to Sam, watching as the boy alternated between shivering and sweating. He hadn't had any strange visions or seizures since Dean had left, but Sam hadn't woken up, either. He mumbled in his sleep, shouted out names and tossed and turned like he was dreaming. Bobby had finally scooted a chair to the side of Sam's bed and brought along the map to study.

Which is where he sat now, studying the terrain and local legends surrounding the area. The shot gun sat across his knees, cocked and loaded just in case. He'd salted the room's one door and window and laid salt around Sam's bed too for good measure.

Next to him, Sam shouted and his body twisted violently. A scream took form in Sam's throat then downgraded into a strained groan as Sam's teeth clenched and his throat tightened. Shivers that had begun in Sam's arms and legs grew into tremors and then blossomed into full on seizures within the span of a moment and Bobby set the shot gun down in favor of holding Sam's head away from the headboard of the bed. His body continued to jerk, arms flailing. Sweat poured down his face and blood trickled from his nose and ears.

As quickly as it had began, the seizure stopped and Sam fell back onto the bed. Bobby's hand shook as he reached for the ice bucket and placed the cold rag on Sam's forehead, using the other rag to wipe at Sam's nose and ears.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was a whisper, the his brother's name forced past strained vocal cords.

"No, Sam. It's Bobby. Can I get you anything?"

"Water," Sam said, opening one eye tentatively. He drank from the water bottle that Bobby held up for him. "When did you get here, Bobby? Where's Dean?"

"Been here awhile. Dean found the location of that spirit and went to get rid of her. He'll be back soon-"

"What? How long ago did he leave?" Sam asked, suddenly sitting up in the bed. He grabbed at his head and shut his eyes tight against a wave of nausea.

"Take it easy, Sam," Bobby said, reaching a hand out to steady the boy. "He's been gone about forty minutes."

Sam didn't look happy at the time frame he'd given. "I told him not to go alone, Bobby_._ Why the hell did you let him go out there? Dammit, I told him the witch's spirit was after him, _specifically!"_

_Dammit Dean._

"He failed to mention that part, Sam. Don't yell at me, boy. I can't control you Winchesters when you get a damn fool idea in your head." Bobby retrieved the shot gun from the floor and began to pace the room.

"Good to know, 'cause we're going out to find him," Sam said, reaching for his shoes.

"Wait a minute-"

"Each of my visions shows that spirit beating the hell out of Dean in an old cabin in Elfin Forest. She knows him somehow, has a very personal grudge against Dean." Sam had finished with his shoes and was retrieving a jacket and filling the pockets with extra salt rounds. He was shaky on his feet, pausing every few moments to breathe through the dizziness. "She's strong for a spirit, and she's not bound to the cabin. She can move about anywhere on the property as far as I can tell. This the map of the area?" he asked, indicating the map Dean had left. At Bobby's nod, Sam continued, pointing at Elfin Forest and Questhaven Road. "Between here and here. She can move about anywhere in there, including the cemetery." Sam tapped his finger on the circled area. "If that's where Dean went to find the cabin then we start there."

"Sam, I don't like this lack of a plan. If burning her bones didn't work, what will?"

"In one of my visions I saw an altar. I told Dean… I think I told Dean that it could be her source, but now I'm not so sure. Either way, when she summoned her power in my last vision, it came from the cabin itself, the corners of the room. I say we trap her inside and burn the place down."

Sam stopped suddenly, staring unseeingly at Bobby. Sam's eyes screwed shut and he reached a hand out to steady himself against Bobby's shoulder.

"Sam? Sam, you're bleedin', son." When he didn't answer, Bobby gripped Sam's shoulder tight and shook him. "You hear me? _Sam?"_

Blood trickled out of Sam's nose. Sam stood frozen in place, eyes still shut tight. Bobby shook him again, his heart beating hard against his chest. _These boys are going to give me a heart attack._

Then Sam was running to the bathroom and Bobby could hear him retching loudly. He emerged a moment later, shaking and sweating, gripping the door frame for support. Bobby was still in front of the motel door, shot gun raised and confused all to hell when Sam stopped in front of him.

"Get out of my way, Bobby. Now." He said it quietly, fear and desperation leaking through the determination he was trying to convey.

"What is it, Sam? What just happened?"

"Another vision." Sam's voice shook. Tears pooled in Sam's eyes, threatening to spill over. He cleared his throat, making a quick swipe at his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was cold, matter-of-fact. "Dean just blew his brains out all over the cabin wall. We don't have much time."

_Oh God._

"I'm driving," Bobby said. "We'll plan on the way."

***

_**February 2008**_

_**Elfin Forest**_

_**Questhaven Road**_

Dean was fairly certain his day couldn't get any worse, but he knew better than to say it out loud.

Turned out that he didn't need to. It got worse all on its own.

The cold metal of his .45 pressed against his temple. His hand shook as he held it there, fighting for control of the weapon with Rebecca. She was stronger, the magic she was using to keep his hand pressing the barrel against his own head and his finger poised over the trigger winning out over his intense desire to not splatter his brains on the wall.

To add insult to the inevitable injury, Rebecca continued to taunt him in her silky sweet voice.

"Your brother's close by. I sent him a vision of you shooting yourself. I don't think he liked that very much." She drifted closer to him, running her hand over the barrel of the gun.

Dean clenched his teeth, fighting against his invisible restraints again. His arms and legs were beginning to ache. He'd been stuck in this position, pinned to the wall and fighting against Rebecca's power for what seemed like hours. His muscles shook with exhaustion.

Rebecca's spirit and Dean heard the creak on the outside stairs at the same time. The door swung open followed closely by Sam's boot. Sam himself came in shooting, putting a round of rock salt into Rebecca and reloading as she dissipated briefly. It gave Dean only enough time to flick on the gun's safety and begin to lower it before she was back, taking control of his limbs again. She threw Sam against the far wall and raised the gun again to Dean's temple.

"Sammy, that wasn't very nice," she purred.

Her form wavered and then fully materialized, drifting to stand next to Sam. Dean watched his brother carefully, his heart hammering against his rib cage. Sam's entrance had clearly taken a toll on him. He hadn't eaten in twenty-four hours and had spent the majority of that time in bed with fevers and seizures. He was pinned to the opposite wall in a sitting position, sagging from exhaustion, Rebecca looming above him.

She ran her hand through Sam's sweat drenched hair. She gently combed the stray pieces down in front, ran her hand to the back and roughly grabbed at the strands there, tilting his head so his chin rose up. He grunted in surprise and caught Dean's eye. Dean didn't read fear in Sam's eyes. Just determination and a clear warning to _stay calm_, _everything will be fine._

"Your brother and I have been waiting quite awhile now, Sam. I think we're ready to get started, don't you?"

"You leave Sam out of this, you bitch. Your problem is with me, Rebecca," Dean said.

"The only problem I have right now, Dean Winchester, is that you're still breathing." She flicked her wrist, causing Dean's hand, and the gun it held, to drop down to waist height and turn inward to point directly at Dean's stomach. He heard Sam yell out in protest at the same time he saw Rebecca's finger twitch and felt his own finger pull back on the trigger. He flinched instinctively, even knowing that he'd managed to put the safety on earlier.

Nothing happened.

Dean looked up, catching Sam's face as the features turned from shattered to astonished to confused. Rebecca, however, was furious.

"Guess you broke the gun, Sweetheart, what with throwing me around the room so much," Dean replied, giving her a cocky grin and hoping that she bought it.

She screamed, twisting the gun from his grasp and throwing it across the room. Rebecca looked down at the shotgun still held in Sam's incapacitated grasp. She lifted her hand, making Sam raise the shotgun and turn the gun's aim on Dean. Sam's feet kicked out uselessly as he fought for control of the gun and he cast frantic glances at Dean.

"No, no no no no… _Dean_-" Sam yelled as Rebecca's finger twitched and Dean flinched back as dozens of particles of rock salt tore into his flesh. He bit back the instinct to scream and settled for a more manly yell followed by a groan as the pain blossomed from several sites and his vision grayed and faded.

When he opened his eyes again, Rebecca was standing over Sam, her arms outstretched as the room crackled with energy. Green lightning shot from all corners of the room and collected in the palms of her hands. Sam's eyes were wide, staring up at her through a mask of barely controlled fury.

Rebecca turned her head, smiling at Dean, the energy crackling and spitting in her hands.

"I'm going to give your little brother a gift now, Dean. It's not as nice as the gift I gave you, though." Her grin widened and she lowered her hands to Sam's head.

Dean yelled, hurling obscenities as her hands made contact with Sam's head. Sam jerked back, his head hitting the wall as the green energy raced along his skull, illuminating the bones in his face like a skeleton. Rebecca let go and stepped back to admire her handiwork. Sam slid to the floor, seizing against the wooden planks beneath him. His eyes rolled back and he stilled.

Rebecca lifted her hands again, the energy still collected there, and she turned to Dean.

"Sammy? _Sammy?" _he yelled, twisting his head to see his brother.

A popping sounded from the kitchen, like glass bottles breaking. Rebecca's form flickered and she screamed, turning her attention on the sound. Several more _pops_ echoed and the green light in her hands wavered and hissed until it disappeared completely.

Bobby turned the corner from the kitchen, gun raised. He fired two rounds into Rebecca's fading form and Dean was suddenly freed from her invisible grasp. He crawled over to Sam, feeling for a pulse and finding it strong. Bobby's gun gave off two more reports behind him, and more glass shattered from the kitchen.

"Dean, time to go. Now!"

Dean grabbed Sam under his arms and dragged him from the house, watching as the kitchen went up in flames. He heard Rebecca's spirit scream again and he glanced up in time to see her fall to her knees in front of the flames, clutching an empty and half-shattered glass jar. Her form flickered and flames licked at her outstretched arms before engulfing her entirely.

"Dean! Watch the salt line," Bobby yelled as he ran up. He grabbed Sam's legs and they hoisted his unconscious body over the salt line that ran completely around the old cabin. Now safe beyond the line, they turned and watched for a moment as the rest of the cabin caught fire. A green light pulsed and brightened to an almost blinding intensity from inside, and then with a _snap_ the green burned out and left only the red flames as they ate up the wooden building.

**End Chapter 10**


	12. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: **

Home stretch here, everyone. One more chapter after this and then the epilogue. Enjoy.

**Chapter 11**

_**February 2008**_

He smelled smoke.

A woman was screaming, a high pitched wail that was just slightly louder than the crackling of the fire.

He was being lifted, briefly, and then laid back down on the moist earth. Two sets of hands frantically grabbed at him and lifted.

Time skipped and jumped ahead. Sam couldn't seem to grab on to any one moment and stay with it for very long. The moments faded in and out, consciousness coming and going as it pleased.

He was upright, more or less. The person supporting his right side was limping and cursing under his breath. The person on his left wasn't faring much better. He was being carried forward, the tops of his shoes bouncing along the rough terrain. Sam tried to get his feet under him, tried to get them to cooperate and move properly, but his mind couldn't seem to tell his feet to do anything.

"Dean?" His voice slurred. His tongue felt thick and dry in his mouth.

"Yeah, Sam. We're almost to the car. You're gonna be okay."

"Hurt…"

"I know you're hurt, but we'll-"

_No, you idiot,_ Sam wanted to say. Instead, all he managed was, "No… _you_ hurt?"

Dean's laugh was strangled and sounded more like an amused sigh. "No, Sam. I'm not hurt."

"I shot you?"

He felt Dean's arm stiffen around his waist. "No, that bitch Rebecca shot me. Just rock salt. No big deal."

"There's the cars, Dean." Sam heard Bobby say, but his voice was far off and echoing, like through a tunnel-

Time jumped.

_Sam sees Dean running through the forest, panicked. Dean glances back as his pursuers close in on him and Sam hears the howling of the Hellhounds…_

Sam's seated in the passenger seat of the Impala, his head leaning against the cool glass of the window.

He opened his eyes and watched as the trees flew by, keeping to himself the thought that Dean was driving way too fast on these winding roads. Sam turned his head and glanced at his brother. Dean's right arm was wrapped across his chest and his left hand was gripping the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles were white. There's multiple small cuts across his neck and face that Sam thinks must be from the rock salt.

Dean caught Sam watching him.

"You okay?"

Sam frowned, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "Were there just Hellhounds?"

"Sam, we don't have enough on our plate right now? You want to talk Hellhounds, too?"

"No, I just… never mind…" His head began to ache and he reached a hand up-

"Sam? Sammy-"

_Sam is tied to a table and flat on his back. His eyes are held open with surgical tape. He looks around the room wildly. A man, or someone who was once a man and now looked more like Frankenstein, walks up to the table and leans down. He begins to scoop out Sam's eye-_

Sam grabbed at his face, feeling both eyes for reassurance, and blinking rapidly.

"What the hell was that?" asked Dean, anger tinged with worry.

Sam jerked his head toward his brother. "Huh?" he asked, confused.

"Are you blacking out?"

"No… Dean I think I'm still having visions. They're very, very vivid-"

_They're behind bars, sitting on a cot in a cell. Leg irons and handcuffs. Henriksen is there, taunting them. "Take a good look at Sam. You two will never see each other again."_

"-it's like I'm in the visions. Experiencing them. _Feeling_ them."

"Sam? Did you hear me?"

"What? No…" Sam looked out the car window. They were stopped at a red light and he recognized the intersection as being close to their motel room. That was fast… "Dean, I thought we killed the spirit? Why am I still having visions?"

Dean was quiet. Confusion and worry lined his face. The light turned green and the car jerked forward.

"Dean?" He looked over at his brother-

_A young girl walks into the police station, holding tight to her mother's hand. "What's your name?" "Lilith," she says, raising her hand up, palm out. The twenty-something woman behind the desk backs up from the girl, horror on her face as she grabs for the cross on her necklace. A blinding white light and –_

"Lilith."

"Who's Lilith, Sam?" Dean asked.

Sam was on the motel bed now, propped up on pillows. He opened his eyes and saw Dean sitting in the chair by the bed. His shirt was off and his chest was wrapped in bandages, blood seeping through the white cloth near some of the larger cuts. He'd already cleaned out the rock salt wounds and wrapped them- how long had Sam been out?

"How's your head feel?"

Sam reached up to his temple, the constant ache there growing steadily worse. "It hurts-"

_They have a demon tied to a chair. He's taunting them both, refusing to give information. The demon looks directly at Dean. "Go ahead. Send me back to hell," he says. "Because when you get there, I'll be waiting for you with a few pals who are dying for a nice little meet and greet with Dean Winchester."_

Sam opened his eyes but Dean was out of the chair now and kneeled at the side of the bed. His head was resting on Sam's forearm. Sam tried to speak, but the next vision began too quickly-

_They're driving in the car and Dean is on the phone. He glances at Sam and says, "Lilith? Why should I believe you?" A pause and then "This can't help you Bela. Not now. Why are you telling me this?" Dean's face hardens. "I'll see you in hell," he says and Sam's chest tightens at the sound of those words, the finality of them coming from Dean's mouth. Dean closes his phone and turns to Sam. "Lilith holds my contract, Sam."_

And the visions kept coming, reality mixing with the future until Sam couldn't tell the difference anymore.

_He watches as Bela is thrown to the ground, her clothes, body, face being ripped apart by an invisible force. She writhes and screams on the ground for only moments before bleeding out-_

"_Only Sam's not waking up, Bobby," Dean says. "Killing Rebecca's spirit was supposed to end all of this!"_

_Sam is in a basement with Ruby. "Look. Call me a bitch, hate me all you want, but I have never lied to you Sam. Not ever. And I'm telling you. You can save your brother, and I can show you how."_

_They're in the car, Dean's hand resting on Sam's shoulder. "We're taking you somewhere for help, okay Sam?" Sam opens his eyes. "Is this real, Dean?" Dean's face falls, and Sam thinks the emotion in Dean's eyes looks a lot like despair. "Yes, Sam. This is real."_

_They're driving, singing along to… Bon Jovi?_

_They're in the living room of a nice suburban home. Ruby, Sam and Dean. "You had your chance. You can't just flip a switch. We needed time," Ruby says. But Sam is desperate: "There's gotta be something. There's gotta be some way, whatever it is, I'll do it!" Dean pulls at Sam's arm, but Sam jerks away. "Don't Dean. I'm not gonna let you go to Hell, Dean!" "Yes you are," Dean yells back. Not angry. Resigned. "Yes you are."_

_They're in a different room now. Dean yells, "That's not Ruby!" and Sam is suddenly thrown against the wall while Dean is pinned against a piano and Ruby's eyes roll back to reveal the white eyes of Lilith._

"_This is Pamela. Best damn psychic around," Bobby says. A female voice, unfamiliar: "Let's get him into the bedroom and I'll see what's what, alright?"_

_Dean is thrown to the ground while Hellhounds that Sam can't see attack. Sam yells for Lilith to stop, screams as he watches his brother get torn up by the invisible claws. They tear at his clothes and flesh and Sam can't watch anymore. He turns his head and closes his eyes as he cries._

_Sam holds Dean's body in his arms. He cries, sobs, Dean's name. "No…no. Dean…"_

_Lightning flashes. Screams echo. Dean is screaming. Calling out for Sam. Giant hooks in Dean's skin hold him, suspended over nothing, an eternal abyss below and above. He screams out again for Sam, desperate and afraid. His face is covered in blood, his eyes are terrified._

_In the distance, Sam hears his name being called. Over and over. He can only stare as the scenes unfold around him, as he wonders how he managed to fail his brother. He tries to figure out where reality begins and this nightmare ends, but he can't seem to separate them…_

…_and the next scene unfolds._

…_and the next…_

***

_**February 2008**_

_**Rancho Sante Fe, CA –**_

_**Motel just outside of Elfin Forest**_

"So all of those jars in the cabin. Each one held a heart?" Dean asked, arranging his brother's long limbs out on the motel bed and then collapsing into the chair beside him.

"As soon as Rebecca's spirit started collecting her energy, I could see the jars in the kitchen, hidden behind a false wall. I smashed as many as I could, to weaken her, shot her with the iron rounds and set fire to the kitchen to destroy the rest." Bobby sat on the other bed and rubbed at the scruff on his chin. "It was Sam's idea. He figured out that the two girls, Rebecca and Elizabeth, didn't die the same way the other coven members did. They were all ruled suicides, but the other members were missing their hearts when they were found. Removed post-mortem. Sam wondered if maybe Rebecca was using the hearts of the whole coven as her energy source, that possibly she had staged the whole suicide in order to keep the group's power for herself."

"Makes sense. Except add in Rebecca's sister Elizabeth and you'll have the whole story. In fact, five years ago I was down here and I burned Elizabeth Barnett's corpse. You remember that, Bobby? I was in the hospital a city over from here, lost memory and all beat to hell? Sam came and got me? That was Rebecca, only I never remembered until now. Rebecca messed with my head that day so I wouldn't come back and gank her before she could rebuild her power." Dean shook his head and opened up the first aid kit. "Then Sam and I show up in the same freaking forest and she decides to take some revenge.

"I take it that it was Sam's dumbass idea to come charging in and give Rebecca exactly what she wanted?"

"Sam knew Rebecca's spirit was in his head; she could feel him coming. So I did all the sneaking around, poured the salt around the house and snuck in the back way. I told him you wouldn't like it, for what it's worth. It was the only way to vanquish that spirit and get both of you out alive, Dean."

Dean pulled his shirt over his head in one quick motion, hissing as bits of dried blood tore open the rock salt wounds. He began to pull out some of the embedded pieces, cleaning and taping them up as he talked. "Only Sam's not okay, Bobby. Killing Rebecca's spirit was supposed to end all of this! He was lucid for a few minutes on the way here, but he would black out in the middle of a conversation and then seem confused when he woke back up."

Bobby was silent for a minute. "Well, the spirit is gone, I'm sure of that. The hearts are destroyed, and we saw her and the cabin burn. Sam's not having fevers or seizures anymore. Dean, he might need a hospital. He's had his head messed with for days now. The fevers and seizures could have caused some kind of damage."

Dean didn't like the sound of that. "I don't know, Bobby. He said he was still having visions. Besides, we can't go to the hospital. We're both wanted by the FBI in several states for, among other things, murder. Henriksen and his goons would be on us so fast-"

Sam grabbed his head with both hands, another vision hitting him. His eyes were shut tight, obviously in pain, but it didn't look like he'd even regained consciousness. Blood poured out from Sam's nose and ears almost instantly this time and he began to moan and babble incoherently.

"Sam, c'mon man. Shhhh. You need to wake up, now, dammit," Dean said, grabbing Sam's arm and pleading through clenched teeth.

Sam's eyes opened. "Lilith."

"Who's Lilith, Sam?" Dean asked, leaning forward in his chair. Sam turned his unfocused gaze on Dean and didn't answer. Dean wondered if Sam even saw him. "How's your head feel?"

Sam reached up to his temple, his face contorting into a grimace. "It hurts…" was all he managed before lapsing into unconsciousness again.

Dean dropped his head onto Sam's sweat-slicked forearm, took a deep breath and reached for the rag on the nightstand. He wiped away the blood from his brother's nose and ears, noticing for the first time the tears that leaked out from the corners of Sam's closed eyes. Dean pressed his fingers to his lips, the cool steel of his ring running along Dean's jaw and the days of stubble there. He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't watch this happen to his brother. He sighed heavily, and rubbed at his eyes.

"You're right. We have to do something." Dean ran his hand through his hair and considered his options. "Maybe…" He blew out a breath. Dean stood and grabbed for his cell phone, turning to face Bobby. "I can get in touch with Henriksen somehow. Turn myself in, ya know. Get some kind of immunity for Sam. I'm the one wanted for the murders. I can tell them I'll confess to all of it if they give Sammy immunity and let him be treated…"

"Dean-"

"I only got a couple of months left anyway, Bobby. Hellhounds can whisk my ass off to Hell from prison just as well as anywhere, right?"

"That might work. Might not. Big problem is your brother will kill you himself if you do that. He'll kill me, too for lettin' you."

Dean's voice rose in answer. "Well, he'd have to be awake and alive to do either of those, which means I would have made the right choice!"

Bobby put up placating hands and backed up one step. He'd seen that look in Dean's eyes before, not too long ago (_Well then let it end)_, and Bobby was no fool. But just because he'd put a bit of distance between himself and Dean, didn't mean he was going to back down.

"It might come to that, Son. I got one more trick up my sleeve, though. If you want to hear it?" At Dean's hesitant nod, Bobby continued. "I got this friend, a psychic. She's real good, too."

"A psychic?"

"She'd be able to at least confirm whether this was medical or supernatural. We load up on caffeine and drive all night we could make good time."

Dean didn't need to hear any more. They had a plan and that was all he needed. He began to pack up the few remaining items in the motel room.

"Save up your strength there, boy. It's gonna take the both of us to get your brother's gigantic, unconscious ass back into the car, ya know."

**End Chapter 11**


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

_**February 2008**_

_**Pamela Barnes Home**_

She saw the dust swirling through her front yard before she heard the rumble of the old classic cars. Pamela peeked out the window, watched as a black Chevy and Bobby's familiar rust bucket pulled into her driveway. She stepped out onto the porch to get a closer look at her visitors.

Bobby had been short but sweet on the phone. He was bringing along the Winchesters and they needed her help. Anyone who knew Bobby, really knew him, was no stranger to the fact that he considered these boys family. While she and Bobby Singer hadn't seen much of each other recently, Pamela was well aware of his affection for Dean and Sam and had promised to do what she could.

She made her way down the porch steps, keeping her eyes on the man that dragged himself from the driver's seat of the Chevy Impala. He was in his late twenties, though the tell-tale, haggard expression of someone who had seen too much of everything except a good night's sleep made him look older. It didn't help that he looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a baseball bat, or that under the thin gray tee-shirt Pamela could see his chest was wrapped with bandages, some of which were in need of changing. He was pale, too, which made the freckles on his cheeks and the green in his eyes stand out.

Despite all of that, Dean Winchester was still gorgeous.

Pamela smiled as she and Bobby reached the passenger side of the car together.

"Bobby Singer!" she exclaimed, wrapping him in a hug. "You look like hell, Bobby. Don't you sleep anymore?"

"Not with these two stirring up shit everywhere they go," he teased back, tilting his head at Dean who was just coming around the car. "Dean Winchester, this is Pamela. Best damn psychic around."

She shook Dean's hand, watching his eyes. She smiled as she was met with the exact mix of distrust, curiosity, and 'let's get moving so we can fix my brother' that she'd expected.

Pamela nodded her head at the passenger seat where a younger man was slumped. She looked over the unconscious figure. He was all arms and legs and shaggy hair front her vantage point. "This Sam? Bobby tells me he's been through the wringer."

Dean didn't speak, just opened the passenger door, moving quickly to prevent Sam's unconscious form from slipping out. He looked to Bobby for help and Pamela jumped in too, the three of them maneuvering the younger brother into the house.

"Let's get him into the bedroom and I'll see what's what, alright?"

Somehow they got Sam onto the bed and Dean was making his brother comfortable with a pillow under his head and rearranging his long limbs when Bobby pulled her aside.

"We gotta get this kid to eat something, Pamela. I haven't seen him eat or sleep in almost forty eight hours, not to mention he's been batted around by a malevolent spirit and taken a shot of rock salt to the gut." Bobby put his weary hand on her shoulder, and Pamela wondered if maybe he'd gone just as long without food or sleep. "I know I'm already asking a lot, and you ain't Martha freakin' Stewart, but-"

"It's no problem. I'll throw something together."

Five minutes later, she heard Bobby and Dean arguing in the other room. She walked into the bedroom, setting the waters and the plate of sandwiches on the dresser by the door, and stood leaning against the door frame.

"Dean, you need to eat, boy. I know you're worried about Sam-"

"I don't need any hand-holding, Bobby. I'm not hungry. Can we just-" Dean saw Pamela in the doorway and turned his pleas to her. "Can you do anything for my brother?"

She gave Dean a soft half-smile, but said nothing.

"Dean, we're not doing a damn thing until you have something to eat and drink. You can't help Sam if you're passing out from malnutrition or dehydration," Bobby said, crossing the room to grab a sandwich for himself. He gave her a mock salute with the bread and leaned against the wall to consume it. "Pamela will back me up on this."

She watched Dean's eyes widen in disbelief, darting back and forth from Bobby to Pamela. She crossed her arms over her chest, just enough attitude to show that Bobby wasn't lying, and remained in the doorway.

Sighing loudly, Dean marched over to the plate of food and snatched a sandwich off it. With his other hand he grabbed a bottled water and then stomped back over to the side of the bed. The united front of Bobby and Pamela caught eyes and smiled at their victory as Dean perched at Sam's side and ate.

Dean raised his eyebrows at her. "I'm eating. Alright? Can we fix Sam now?"

They brought in three chairs and placed them around the bed, Pamela taking the chair on Sam's left, Bobby at the foot of the bed and Dean on Sam's right.

"Did he wake up at all on the way here?" asked Bobby.

Dean swallowed the last of his second sandwich and chased it with water. "Um, yeah. Two or three times. But he didn't know where he was, kept muttering stuff that made no sense. Once or twice he'd ask me 'is this real?'." Dean stopped there, swallowing hard and training his eyes on Sam's passive face. Pamela sensed there was more to it, but Dean didn't share. He glanced up at Pamela. "Did Bobby fill you in?"

Pamela shook her head. Dean related the whole story, from the salt and burn turned buried alive, to the hex on Sam, to killing the witch's spirit and how it all tied back to a solo hunt Dean went on in 2003. "He stopped waking up altogether about three hundred miles back."

"Okay, spells and curses I can work with. Bobby, hit the lights would you? Dean light the candles," she said, tossing him a lighter from her pocket.

Pamela closed her eyes as the two men reclaimed their seats. Stretching her arms out, she ran her hands just centimeters above Sam's body. Her hands were hovered just above his forehead when she said, "You didn't tell me Sam had psychic abilities- abilities before the hex."

She didn't need to open her eyes to know that Dean had straightened up in his chair and that he was very uncomfortable with her having this knowledge. But Pamela was never one to pull her punches and Dean Winchester didn't scare her in the least so she continued. "Not a natural ability, either. He wasn't born with it…"

"Dean," Bobby warned. "You trust me, and I trust Pamela. We want to help Sam, we can't be keepin' secrets."

Dean was quiet for so long that Pamela opened her eyes and watched the struggle play out on his face. _He doesn't trust easily, and probably for good reason_, she thought. In the end, though, his faith in Bobby overrode his gut instinct.

"A demon named Azazel had something to do with it. Sam started having dreams and then visions a couple of years ago, but after we killed the demon, the visions stopped." Dean reached up and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "You think what the spirit did to Sam has something to do with his psychic crap? Sorry-" he held up placating hands to Pamela. "Sorry, no offense intended to any psychics in the room."

"All I can tell, Dean is that there is no lingering spell work being cast on Sam."

"Okay, what then? Why isn't he waking up?"

"My best guess? That spirit went digging around in Sam's head, saw a latent ability and flipped the switch. Being a malevolent spirit and all, she most likely sent his ability into overdrive."

"Overdrive meaning…?"

"From what you described, she flipped the switch and concentrated all of her energy onto Sam, intending for his ability to spin out of control. She opened him up to the visions, and not just one at a time. Sam was subjected to multiple and continuous visions until her spell wore off, which may have happened as soon as she died, or could have lingered as an aftereffect for hours depending on how strong she was."

Dean was silent. She could see the rage building just beneath the surface and she rushed to defuse it.

"The good news is that Sam is in there. He's not in any pain, he's just retreated very far back in his subconscious. All he needs is someone to guide him back."

"And the bad news?" Dean asked.

"He's seen a lot of the future in a short amount of time. Seeing one possible event or future can be disorienting and he was subjected to… well, we don't even know how many. Sam is probably confused. Seeing future events laid out on a very long timeline. Since he's retreated so far inside, I imagine he's not sure where reality lies on that timeline."

Dean sighed and swiped his hand through his short hair. "So when he woke up and asked 'is this real', he could have been referring to any number of things that he'd seen." At Pamela's nod, Dean stood up quickly, knocking his chair back. "Son of a bitch."

"What is it, Dean?" asked Bobby.

"On the way here, he was mostly just babbling nonsense. But he did wake up and apologize for not saving me from Hell. He had a one-sided argument with you, Bobby, about burying me and he asked me if Hellhounds had been in the forest with us." Dean righted his chair and sat back down in it. Pamela watched Dean lay his hand on Sam's forearm. "He could be seeing any number of things, Bobby. And none of 'em are good."

Pamela wasn't sure what all the talk about Hell and it's hounds had to do with anything, but kept quiet for now. She watched Dean carefully. He looked like he needed to sleep for a week and a shower at this point wouldn't hurt him either, but he was strong, mentally as well as physically. The connection between these two brothers would be more than enough to take the next step.

***

"Are we going to have to hold hands and hug and sing Kumbaya, too?" Dean asked.

"What you and your brother do in your spare time is none of my business," Pamela replied, smiling. "Oh, but yes. You will have to hold hands."

Dean rolled his eyes as he laid down on the bed next to Sam. He found a comfortable position then turned his head and watched Sam. His brother looked peaceful, lying still and breathing slowly. He looked much younger, too, the deep sleep erasing the worry lines that had developed over the past few years.

"Okay Dean. I'm ready to get started. I'll count backward from ten and you'll fall asleep. Once your under I'll perform the spell and move your conscious mind into Sam's subconscious. Remember to listen for my voice, just in case I need to bring you out-"

"Don't be bringing me out unless Sam's with me, got it?" he snapped.

Pamela ignored his outburst. "You can wake yourself up at any time- you remember how right?"

Dean nodded and sighed loudly. All of this mind-walking was making him nervous. He hadn't liked the dream root job they'd done a few weeks back, either, but this was different. Pamela had warned him that it would be disorienting but that she really couldn't tell him what it would be like. It was different for everyone. He could be in Sam's head, seeing what he saw in his mind's eye, his thoughts and memories even.

A part of Dean balked at how obtrusive the whole thing could be on Sam's privacy. Dean knew how he'd feel if the situation was reversed. The other part of Dean, however, just missed his brother. The other part of Dean just wanted his brother to be okay again. To be Sam.

"Okay, take your brother's hand and close your eyes."

Dean grabbed Sam's hand, interlocking their fingers and glanced at his brother. _Wake up, Sammy. Make fun of me for this chick flick moment… anything, _he begged, butSam continued to sleep. Dean relaxed back into the pillows and closed his eyes. From far away, he heard Pamela counting down…

The room around him grew silent and still. Dean concentrated on his breathing, on the feel of Sam's hand-

-except he didn't feel Sam's hand anymore.

His eyes flew open and were greeted by complete darkness.

The darkness was thick and oppressive. The kind of darkness that made you doubt which way was up and which way was down. Dean turned in a circle, his eyes searching for anything to point him in a direction.

"Sam?" His voice echoed, bouncing off invisible walls.

He spun again, eyes squinting as he searched the emptiness. And that's what it was: empty. It wasn't that the room was dark, it was that it lacked _anything_. Like a black hole. Fear clenched at Dean's throat at the thought of this kind of isolation and he called out again, his voice catching, "Sammy?"

He would have missed it had he continued to search so frantically, but he stopped and peered into the inky blackness and confirmed what he was seeing. A candle, lit and sitting at floor level. He walked toward it, wondering briefly if he was actually walking on something at all? His shoes made no noise as he moved. The candle was suddenly at his feet, though, and he bent down beside it. He put his hand next to the small flame, grateful to be able to see _something_. He grabbed the handle of the candlestick, blinked-

-and was suddenly in the passenger seat of the Impala.

Dean looked out the window at trees and street signs that flew by. They were non-descript, the street signs mostly gibberish and random letters, like in a dream where your mind decided to not put in the effort of making total sense. He looked closer and the view outside the window changed. The trees became pictures, some of them clearly memories, others clearly visions of things to come. He focused in on one and it played out before him like a movie:

_Sam pushed the shovel into the ground, lifted the dirt and threw it to the side. The repetitive motion numbed his thoughts as much as the empty bottle sitting over by Dean's body had. His hands shook as he laid the shovel on the ground and stumbled over to Dean's side. He removed the amulet from around his brother's neck and lifted him into the handmade wooden box. Sam moved to close the lid, hesitated as he caught one last glimpse of his brother's unmarred face. Tears streamed down his cheeks unchecked and Sam reached down and grasped the empty bottle of liquor by its neck and hurled it into a nearby tree. The shatter of glass released something inside him and he sat down heavily as his legs gave out, grasping at the side of the wooden casket-_

Dean blinked and swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in his throat. _That was enough of that,_ he thought, deliberately turning his head away from the window.

He turned to his left and saw Sam.

"Heya Sammy."

Sam jumped, startled to hear Dean's voice, and jerked the steering wheel of the car.

"Whoa, sorry man. Didn't mean to scare you," Dean said, grabbing for the dashboard. "I'm going to have to revoke your fake driving privileges."

"Dean, what are you doing here?" Sam pulled the car over to the side of the road and turned completely in the seat to face Dean. Sam tilted his head, grief and guilt playing equally across his features. "This wasn't supposed to happen. I'm so sorry."

"What are you talking about, Sam?"

"I should have listened to Bobby. He wanted to do the usual salt and burn, but I… I just couldn't do it. I didn't think you were going to be so pissed off that you'd come and haunt me, though," Sam said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. The smile faltered quickly. "It's good to see you again."

"Sammy? I'm not dead," Dean replied, laughing. "I came here to find you and take you back."

Sam's brows creased together. "That sounds… vaguely ominous. Dean, I saw you die."

"I know you did, Sam. You've been having visions, and that witch scrambled your thoughts up real good, but none of that stuff happened. I'm still alive, you're still alive. Bobby has this psychic friend- super hot chick, by the way- and she's doing this spell so I can wander around your brain and find you. It's pretty freakin' weird, actually."

"That's… crazy, Dean. I know what I saw, and it wasn't any vision. My visions aren't that vivid. Besides, you've been dead for weeks," Sam said.

"Okay, fine. You notice anything about the scenery around here? Or, how 'bout this: where were you driving to right now?"

Sam looked down at his hands and fidgeted silently. When he looked back up, Dean could see the confusion on Sam's face. "I'm not sure, actually. I was just driving…" Sam ran a hand down his face and squinted, trying to remember. When he looked back up at Dean, the hope in his eyes was almost unbearable. "You didn't die? Really?"

"One hundred percent not dead, Sammy," Dean replied. "Now, if we could get back to real life that'd be great. We're having a huge chick flick moment back at the psychic's house and if we don't hurry, Bobby's gonna take pictures or something."

Sam laughed. "Okay, so how do we get out of here?"

Dean started to answer, but the scenery around them melted away into the nothingness from before. Dean and Sam were left standing in the dark room, and the only illumination was the candle in Sam's grip.

"Never mind, Dean. I got this one covered."

Sam reached his hand out, gripping Dean's upper arm and drew in a sharp breath. Leaning his face close to the flickering candlelight, Sam exhaled and the room plunged into darkness.

***

Pamela had only left the room for a moment to check on Bobby. He'd fallen asleep on the couch just outside the bedroom. Dean had been under for five hours and Pamela had watched Bobby fight a losing battle with his increasingly heavy eyelids for three of them.

She heard a voice coming from the bedroom, though, so she quickened her pace. She got as far as the doorframe, but the sight inside caused her to stop short. Sam Winchester was sitting in the chair by the side of the bed, his hand wrapped around his older brother's. His voice was weak and strained, but even from the doorway, Pamela could hear Sam's plea for Dean to wake up. She took a breath and stepped inside.

"You need to give him a little extra time, Sam. The journey through the mind is always a little harder on the one going in, and Dean was pretty weak already." She stopped at the end of the bed and extended her hand. "I'm Pamela Barnes."

Sam extended his free hand to shake Pamela's.

"It's nice to see you up and around, Sam. Dean and Bobby were really worried for you."

"Dean said you're a psychic." Sam's intense green eyes caught hers, earnest but hopeful. "Have you ever been able to change the things you see? Stop something from happening?"

Pamela smiled. "My gift wouldn't be much of a gift if I couldn't help people change their future."

Sam laughed derisively. "Gift? My visions have never been a gift."

"They could be, Sam. I know you saw a lot of awful stuff, experienced it all like it was really happening, but you learned a lot from these visions, too. And I could help you learn to control them now, if you'd like."

He smiled up at her genuinely, all dimples and squinted eyes. "Thank you."

On the bed, Dean flinched and struggled into consciousness. Sam's attention diverted to his brother, his eyes lighting up as Dean woke. Pamela stepped back to the doorway, not wanting to intrude. Before leaving the room she turned to get another look at the Winchester brothers, the boys that Bobby considered his family. She couldn't help but let the corner of her mouth quirk into a smile as she heard Dean's first words upon waking:

"You okay, Sammy?"

**End Chapter 12**


	14. Epilogue

_**Epilogue**_

The tires of the Impala raced over the blacktop, chasing the lines of the road.

They'd spent a week at Pamela's home, resting and recuperating. Dean's rock salt wounds had needed re-dressing as infection was becoming a factor, and both of them had needed about a month of sleep. In the end, though, boredom had won out and they had opted for finishing up their recovery on the road. They weren't headed anywhere specific, but Sam had information and a mission now that he couldn't ignore.

Sam folded the map carefully and replaced it in the glove box. He stole a glance at Dean. He was humming along to the music of his Metallica cassette. Side A, song number 7, Sam recited by memory. _He really needed to get Dean an iPod,_ Sam thought. _Or at least some new cassettes. _

"You're thinking entirely too hard over there, Sammy." Dean had replaced humming with tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "Where are we headed?"

"Colorado," Sam decided. "Our tip says that's where Bela is, so that's where the Colt would be. We'll need the Colt to kill Lilith. And, while I don't like Bela anymore than you do, I don't have an intense desire to watch her get ripped up by Hellhounds. Who knows? While we're changing your future, maybe we can change hers, too."

"That's an awfully Zen attitude considering she shot you," Dean replied.

"I guess I'm feeling charitable," Sam said. "You know, for how much trouble that salt and burn in Elfin Forest turned out to be, it was a lucky break."

Dean laughed. "Lucky break? That job was a lot of things, Sam. 'Lucky break' wasn't one of them."

"Think about it, Dean. Because of my visions, we know about Lilith holding your crossroads contract months before we would have found out." He didn't mention that he'd learned that Ruby may be his only chance for saving Dean. Sam would keep that knowledge to himself for now. If his visions were correct, though, Ruby was willing and able to teach Sam how to save his brother. Sam had been shown a version of the future where he didn't take Ruby up on the offer, and Dean died and went to Hell. He wasn't going to let that vision become reality. "And, you got to wrap up a case from five years ago, found some missing memories and finish up a job," Sam pointed out.

"I guess that's true," Dean finally said. "You know, I'd always wondered where my intense dislike of witches came from. At least now I hate them in context."

"Can't argue with you there."

Dean was quiet, eating up a few more miles of road before he spoke.

"Do you really believe we can change the future you saw, Sam?" Dean asked.

"Why else would I have the visions, Dean, unless I could use them to help people?" It was a non-answer, Sam knew. He sighed, searching for an answer closer to the truth. Dean deserved that much. "I have to believe that we can, Dean."

Sam turned, caught Dean's eyes, and knew that his brother understood. Dean nodded, the corner of this mouth twitching into a reassuring grin. "Okay, Sammy. Colorado it is."

_**End**_

**Author's Notes:**

Whew! It's over.

Ok, so this was my first foray into writing a multi-chapter, plot driven fanfic and boy was it tougher than I expected! Thanks again to all of you who favorite this story, followed me chapter by chapter, and for all of the comments and reviews.

I would love to hear from those of you who have taken the time to read my story (yes, even you lurkers… I see you, LOL). Good, bad or indifferent, I would love to hear what you think. One reason I write is to continue to improve my writing and plotting skills (while having fun with characters that I really love and care about), so I would appreciate any feedback.

For anyone interested, Questhaven and Elfin Forest are real places. I grew up nearby to this urban legend and was intrigued enough by it to use it as a basis for this story. The area has always been rumored to be haunted. People report a lot of strange activity in the area. It's also rumored that there is a witch who haunts the area and a cult house and old insane asylum on the property. Naturally, I took the witch rumors and applied a little creative license and this Questhaven fanfic was born. My intense desire to throw Sammy around a little bit also played a big part, LOL.

Anyway, thanks again for following me on this journey. It was a lot of fun!

~Nicole


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